


From Ash

by anotetofollow



Category: Elder Scrolls
Genre: Action/Adventure, Elder Scrolls Lore, Fantasy, Gen, Morrowind, Pre-Oblivion Crisis, Twin Lamps (Elder Scrolls)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-05-31 12:59:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6470860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anotetofollow/pseuds/anotetofollow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Warrior. Abolitionist. Mercenary. Leader. Master. Pilgrim. Crusader. Champion.</p>
<p>Many tales have been told about Nephivah Sadrys.</p>
<p>This one is true.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Full Masser, Waning Secunda

Velsa Sadrys gave birth to her first child one cold night in Last Seed, in the same house she had grown up in. The baby was early; her husband had not yet returned from his business in Narsis, and she had been visiting her mother when she had felt the first stab of pain in her belly.  
  
There was no time to send for a healer. At that time of year Blacklight had already seen its first snowfall and it was treacherous to venture out after dark, when the cobbled streets turned to ice and the bitter wind wailed through the Velothi Mountains. Velsa’s mother laid her down by the family shrine, where the house was warmest, and tried to appear calmer than she felt. Nedari had three children of her own, but birthing them had never made her as sick as her daughter looked. Velsa was trembling, and cold sweat plastered her hair to her cheeks.  
  
“Where is Balen?” she said, her voice hoarse. “He needs to be here. He should be here.”  
  
“There is no time,” her mother stroked her forehead as she spoke. “The baby is coming now, Velsa. We must do this together.”  
  
“But I can’t- ah!” Velsa cried out as the pain washed over her anew. She clawed at the thin rug that had been laid out over the flagstones, begging the Ancestors watching over her for succour.  
  
“Hush. Breathe. It will pass.”  
  
Nedari was growing quietly fearful. Velsa had been in labour for hours, but nothing seemed to be happening the way Nedari remembered it. Her daughter’s eyes were glassy, her skin sallow and clammy to the touch. Nedari added more logs to the fireplace, but its warmth seemed to have little effect on Velsa. She shivered, clutching her swollen stomach, the breaths coming ragged in her throat.  
  
For the first time, it occurred to Nedari that her daughter and her grandchild might not live to see morning. The thought settled deep in the pit of her stomach, a knot of dread that stirred her to action.  
  
“Velsa. I’m going to get help,” she said. “Hold on. I won’t be long.”  
  
“What? Mother, no. You can’t leave me!”  
  
The desperation in her daughter’s voice tugged at Nedari’s heart. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” She didn’t look behind her as she walked out of the door.  
  
None of the buildings on their street were particularly grand, but the house opposite Nedari’s was worse than most. The windows had been boarded over with no great care, one of the planks hanging off by a single rusted nail, and so many slates had fallen off the roof that it had begun to resemble a set of rotting teeth. The house had always frightened her. Its inhabitant frightened her.  
  
Carefully picking her way across the icy stone, Nedari approached the door, and knocked. For a long time, all was silent save the sound of the wind. She was about to give up and return to her daughter when the door opened, just a crack. In the dim light, Nedari could make a yellow eye peering out at her.  
  
“This one was sleeping,” the voice was a low rumble.  
  
“Forgive me,” Nedari stuttered. “But I need your help.”  
  
“My help?” The speaker opened the door further. She was a Khajiit, hunched and ancient, the fur around her muzzle and ears almost white with age. As she spoke, she scratched her nose with a curved claw. “The Dunmer does not know Abashi. Why would she ask Abashi for her help?”  
  
“Please,” Nedari said. “My daughter is sick. She has a baby coming. People say you’re a wi- a healer. Please, I beg you. I fear she won’t last the night.”  
  
Abashi stood perfectly still apart from her tail, which swished rhythmically behind her. Her slitted pupils seemed to bore into Nedari’s own eyes. Nedari tried her hardest not to blink.  
  
“Very well,” Adashi yawned, revealing her pointed canines. “Let us go."

* * *

Velsa was too delirious to even register surprise when Abashi knelt down next to her and began prodding at her belly. Nedari hovered to the side, pressing her fingertips against the shrine as if her descendents could support her through the stone.

“Hmm,” the Khajiit frowned. “Not good. You did right thing, fetching Abashi. Bring wickwheat, more water. This night will be long one.”

Nedari did as she was told. She felt helpless sitting there, clasping her daughter’s freezing hand as the Khajiit went about her work. Abashi mixed up powders in her small mortar. Some she sprinkled onto Velsa’s face and neck, others she mixed with wine and encouraged the girl to sip. She sang quietly to herself the whole while, words in a lilting foreign tongue.

After a time, some of the colour returned to Velsa’s face. Her eyelashes fluttered open, and she squinted at Nedari.  
  
“Mother?” Her lips were dry and cracked, but she was smiling.  
  
“I’m here,” Nedari squeezed her daughter’s hand, unable to contain her own relief.  
  
“Out of the woods,” Abashi cut in. “Still only half the job. Now, the kit.”  
  
“Who are you?” Velsa started, flinching away from the Khajiit. “Mother, who is this?”  
  
“I, Abashi. You, push.”

* * *

  
Finally, sometime in the early hours of the morning, the thin, high cry of a newborn filled Nedari’s home. She wept at the sight of her grandchild, tiny in Abashi’s gnarled hands, but alive. With a shaking finger she wiped the blood from the baby’s forehead, and smeared it across the stones of the shrine. She wanted this moment to be remembered by all the generations to come.  
  
“Your kit is healthy,” Abashi nodded approvingly as she placed the child into Velsa’s arms. “She has good lungs. Big roar for such a little thing.”  
  
“It’s a girl?” Velsa asked. Her wariness of Abashi had disappeared completely over the last hours.  
  
“Mmm,” the Khajiit gazed out of the window, where the moons hung brightly in the clear sky. “Full and waxing. If she were Khajiit, she would be Senche-raht. Big. Made for battle. She will be strong, this one.”  
  
Abashi got slowly to her feet, leaning on the hearth for support. When Nedari moved to help her she was shooed away.  
  
“Pssh. Not so old yet.” She flicked her tail irritably.  
  
“Abashi,” Nedari said. “I don’t know how to thank you for this. I’ll pay you for your time, of course, but it seems-”  
  
“The Dunmer will do no such thing,” Abashi sniffed. “Ask for help. Not offer employment.”  
  
“Please,” Nedari insisted. “You saved my daughter’s life. My granddaughter’s life. You must let me do something for you in return.”  
  
Abashi looked down at the hearth, where Velsa was cradling her baby in her arms. “They will tell stories about that child, one day,” she said. “Abashi wishes only to be one of them.”


	2. Hand on Heart

When her husband returned from the south, two weeks after their daughter was born, Velsa could barely wait to tell him the good news. What she had not expected was that he would bring far less pleasant news of his own. The trading in Narsis had not gone well, and the money he had left with had was almost gone.  
  
Left with little choice, they sold their small apartments and moved in with Nedari, who was secretly delighted by this turn of events. Her husband had passed some years ago, and her house had been quiet for too long. Velsa and Balen spent most of their time filling the silence with arguments, and it was almost another week before they calmed down enough to name their daughter; Nephivah, after her maternal grandmother.  
  
As the years passed, little improved for the Sadrys family. Despite their best efforts, they never quite managed to regain their former financial comfort. The district in which they lived, once a safe and prosperous part of the city, was slowly falling into disrepair. The streets were rife with petty crime and littered with garbage. Whatever weight Nedari’s family name once held was swept away by progress, and it became increasingly difficult to make ends meet.  
  
In the day Balen would trudge out to the market to hawk trinkets until sundown, while Velsa and Nedari took turns schooling Nephivah at the kitchen table. In the evening they would all have dinner together, and the adults would discuss how and when things would be different for them. Then they would go to bed, and the next day begin their routine anew.  
  
Nephivah grew up in a world of adult sombriety, half-listening to conversations she didn’t fully understand. Her parents discouraged her from mixing with the half-feral children who lived on their street, but were not affluent enough to associate with the sort of families that they approved of. Consequently Nephivah spent much of her childhood on her own, slowly going mad with boredom.  
  
Bereft of companionship, she turned to Nedari’s modest library for entertainment. It was here that she first read stories of the great warriors of her country, their adventures, victories and sacrifices. These heroes became her closest friends and confidantes. In the evenings, when her mother asked the small idol of Azura on their mantle for Her blessing, Nephivah would mutter her own prayers to General Symmachus. On one memorable occasion Velsa walked into the kitchen to find her daughter reenacting Purilla Falen’s stand against the mercenaries of House Dres using sacks of grain from the pantry. Her brow creasing, she began to wonder whether her daughter might be a little touched in the head.  
  
Finally, in Nephivah’s eleventh year, their fortunes began to change. Balen had an old friend in Tear, a Breton named Eric Durand. When Vvardenfell was reorganised as an Imperial district two years previously he had moved there to start a small caravaning service, moving goods between the settlements that were springing up around the island. His business had prospered, the influx of new colonists providing him with an endless stream of cargo to transport. In fact, he almost had more work than he could handle - so he wrote to Balen, offering him a lucrative opportunity across the Inner Sea.  
  
Balen and Velsa had been squirreling away a few drakes here and there for the best part of a decade, and to their pleasant surprise they had more than enough to make the passage. They wasted no time in arranging their travel, and by the end of Sun’s Height they were on a barge heading south. Nedari, who chose to remain in Blacklight despite her daughter’s half-hearted protestations, waved them goodbye from the docks. Nephivah waved back, sniffling. She was sad to be leaving her grandmother. Nedari had always been kind to her, and had not minded when she bent the spines of her books or spilled tea onto the pages.  
  
Her sadness at what she was leaving behind, however, was nothing compared to her excitement at what lay ahead. After years of abject boredom she was finally going to be somewhere new and exotic, and her childish imagination swelled with the possibilities.  
  
Even the journey itself was thrilling compared to the mundanity of Blacklight. When the weather was good enough for her to come above deck she would sit by the railings with the parting gift Nedari had given her - a book of Vvardenfell folk tales. The sea wind whipped her russet hair about her face, but she paid it no mind as she pored over the slim volume. There was a map on the inside of the cover, and each time she looked at it Nephivah would touch her finger to a place in the southwest. Her father had told her that their new home was there, in a city called Balmora.  
  
_Balmora_. Even its name was grand. Nephivah would mouth the syllables to herself as she stared out across the water, eyes fixed on the distant shape of Red Mountain, and for the first time in her life she felt free.

 

* * *

 

  
Balmora turned out to be just as exciting as Nephivah had hoped, in an entirely different way than she had expected.  
  
Contrary to what her book of folk tales had told her, there were no mushroom-shaped houses or flying monsters to be seen anywhere. That was a disappointment, but the city found other ways to fascinate her.  
  
Where Blacklight was bitter cold, the air in Balmora was warm and close, its muggy heat reminding her of the mountain hot springs her mother had taken her to one winter. Guards in strange armour patrolled the streets, and in the night’s quiet the mournful howls of the silt striders echoed across the city. Nephivah was gleefully frightened by the strangeness of it all.  
  
But what struck her most of all were the people. Her own kind were still the biggest presence, but men and women from all the provinces lived and worked alongside them. Men and mer, great hulking Orcs and feline Khajiit, sinewy smooth-scaled Argonians - Nephivah had never seen anything like it.  
  
“We’re in Hlaalu territory now, sweetling,” her father had told her, the first time they went to market together. “They embrace the new ways. Free trade. Imperial law. Our homeland is moving forward, at last. About time too.”  
  
He clapped her on the shoulder. “Right,” she replied, not really understanding. “That’s good.”  
  
Nephivah had noticed a change in both her parents since they settled in Balmora. Eric had made good on his promise of steady work, and the family had enough money to rent a decent house near the riverside. Living in comfort for the first time in years had done wonders for them. Balen was full of ambition and vigour, and Velsa had been permanently giddy once she learned she had another child on the way.  
  
They were happy. More importantly, they were distracted. Now that her parents had lives of their own to attend to, Nephivah found that they paid significantly less attention to hers. For the first time she was able to wander outside of her home with impunity, exploring Balmora’s narrow streets for hours at a time.  
  
During these miniature adventures she would often catch sight of a trio of Dunmeri children around her age, two boys and a girl. They always seemed to be together, whether they were fishing for mudcrabs off one of the wide bridges or skulking around the alleys of Labor Town. Nephivah would often watch them, listening to their laughter from a safe distance.  
  
After several weeks of awkward surveillance, she finally worked up the courage to approach them. The trio were sat outside the Lucky Lockup tavern, squabbling over a bag of sugared cobnuts.  
  
“I’m the one that filched them!” the girl said, hugging them to her chest.  
  
One of the boys, who looked to be the youngest of the group, frowned at her. “Yeah. From my Ma’s pantry. They’re more mine than yours.”  
  
The other boy cuffed them both around the ears. “Stop it. Just share them out or I’ll take the whole lot off you.”  
  
The others acquiesced, handing the bag over to the older boy. It was clear that he was the ringleader.  
  
Confident that she had a handle on the group’s dynamics, Nephivah cleared her throat loudly. The group stopped divvying out the cobnuts and looked up at. The younger boy stuffed a couple in his mouth while the others were distracted.  
  
“Hello,” Nephivah grinned awkwardly.  
  
“Who are you?” the ringleader said. It was clear from his expression that daring to speak to him was a bad move in itself.  
  
Determined to finish what she had started, Nephivah soldiered on. “I’m Nephivah. Who are you?”  
  
“I’m Nix,” he pushed his thumb against his chest. “This here’s Netch and Shalk.” He gestured at the girl and the other boy in turn.  
  
“Your name’s not Shalk,” Nephivah nodded at the the younger boy. “It’s Ano. I saw you down the market with your Ma last week. She was giving you an earful for sneaking dates out of her basket.”  
  
Shalk shifted uncomfortably where he sat. The other two sniggered at him. “It’s a nickname,” he muttered. “We all got ‘em. We’re a gang, get it?”  
  
“A gang?” Nephivah laughed, emboldened by his embarrassment. “Poor kind of gang you are. Sitting around on corners arguing over cobnuts.”  
  
Nix took a step towards her. He was a head taller than she was, his shoulders already broad for a boy of no more than thirteen. His features sharpened as he scowled at her. Nephivah stood her ground. The heroes in her stories never backed down from danger, and lacking any real experience she used those tales as a guideline in all things.  
  
“What do you want, anyway?” he snapped.  
  
“I want to join.”  
  
“You what?”  
  
“Your gang,” she said. “I want to join. Even if it is a bit… well.”  
  
Nix gave her an odd look, then retreated back to his friends. The three of them conferred quietly for what seemed like an age, while Nephivah studied her shoes intensely.  
  
Eventually Nix beckoned her over to them.  
  
“Well?” Nephivah said. “Can I join.”  
  
“You can,” he spoke slowly. “If you can pass the initiation.”  
  
“Initiation?”  
  
“Of course,” Nix grinned. “We all had to pass the initiation, didn’t we?”  
  
The others nodded in agreement, but the smiles they wore suggested that they had done no such thing.  
  
“Go on then,” Nephivah said. “What is it?”  
  
“You know Nalcarya?”  
  
“The alchemist?”  
  
“That’s the one,” Nix’s smile was like quicksilver. “There’s a shelf at the back of her shop. She keeps a daedra heart there, in this big old bowl. We want you to get it for us.”  
  
Nephivah made a face. “Why would you want that?”  
  
“We don’t want it, you dull s’wit,” Netch said. “We just want you to prove you’ve got what it takes.”  
  
“Yeah...” Shalk began to speak, but trailed off before he could finish his sentence.  
  
Nephivah considered their proposition. She had never stolen anything before, and her parents would be furious if she was caught. On the other hand, she was being offered the chance to make real friends for the first time in her life. It was no choice at all, really.  
  
“Alright,” she said at last. “I’ll do it.”  
  


* * *

 

 

Half an hour later she was dithering outside the alchemist’s front door, wondering if she was really going to go through with her plan. She knew what she was doing was wrong, but what hero hadn’t broken a few rules on the way to greatness? The thought rallied her. She took a deep breath, and pushed the door open.  
  
The room was dim, lit by a few beeswax candles that filled the air with a cloying floral scent. A large mahogany counter took up most of the floor, and the walls were lined with shelves of ingredients. It was on the highest one of these that Nephivah’s prize sat. The heart looked wet and bloody, and was bigger than both of her fists together. She stared at it, both disgusted and awed.  
  
“Can I help you, miss?” Nalcarya appeared from a side room, breaking Nephivah’s reverie.  
  
“Yes,” she swallowed. “This is for you.” She willed her hand not to shake as she passed a roll of parchment to the alchemist.  
  
The Altmer unrolled the missive and read it, frowning. “That’s odd,” she murmured. “I’ll be right back.”  
  
She went back into the storeroom, and Nephivah was left alone in the shop. She could hardly believe her plan had worked. Her father often dragged her along on his business around town, and the routine was always the same. He would hand the shopkeeper a copy of an order Eric had sent them in advance, and they would go to their stores to collect what was on the list. Her father would then take the goods to the caravans to be sent off around Vvardenfell. Nephivah had found these excursions tremendously boring at the time, but they were finally proving useful. It had simply been a matter of forging an order slip. It had been easy enough. There were always a few scattered around her father’s desk at home.  
  
Nephivah also knew from experience that she didn’t have long before Nalcarya returned. Blood pounding in her ears, she crept to the back of the shop, towards the daedra heart in its great dark bowl. The shelf was too high for her to reach, so she carefully climbed onto the counter and stretched her hand out towards it.  
  
It was still just a little too far. Not even daring to breathe, she stood up onto her tiptoes, and her fingers closed around the heart. It was disturbingly warm, and she could have even fooled herself that it moved beneath her skin. Quickly, she stuffed it inside her jerkin -  and slipped.  
  
For a moment she thought all was lost, but at the last second her instincts took over and she grabbed the edge of the shelf to stop her fall. It wobbled precariously for a moment, but held firm. Nephivah had not noticed her eyes were closed until she opened them. Breathing heavily, she climbed carefully to the floor, making sure the damp weight of the heart was still carefully concealed inside her clothing.  
  
Nalcarya returned seconds later. If she noticed anything was amiss, she didn’t show it.  
  
“Problem with the order, ma’am?” Nephivah smiled weakly.  
  
“I never received this,” the alchemist gestured to the parchment. “Tell Eric to check his paperwork. I can get this in by next week but no sooner.”  
  
“Course. I’ll tell him right away. G’bye ma’am!” Nephivah had to hold herself back from running out of the shop.  
  
When she stepped out onto the street she gave up all pretence of restraint and began sprinting towards the Lucky Lockup, laughing in spite of herself.

 

* * *

 

“You actually did it.” Nix looked down at the heart in his hands, his mouth slightly open. Shalk and Netch peered over his shoulders to get a better view.  
  
“Azura,” Shalk said. “It’s-”  
  
“-really disgusting,” Netch finished. She seemed the least impressed of the three.  
  
“So?” Nephivah said. “Am I in the gang now?”  
  
The trio looked at each other. Clearly they had not anticipated that she might actually go through with their plan.  
  
“I suppose so,” Nix shrugged. “You did get the heart.”  
  
Nephivah struggled not to show her delight. “So what’s my nickname then?” she asked. “What about Kagouti? Or Racer?”  
  
A smug smile broke across Nix’s face. “I think not. Welcome to the gang, Scib.”

 

* * *

 

Nephivah returned home to find that she was in a great deal of trouble. She had been found out, of course. The paperwork she had forged had been copied a little too closely from her father’s, and once Nalcarya had noticed the heart was missing she had gone straight to Eric Durand. From there it had not taken much to trace the crime back to Nephivah.  
  
She was lectured for what felt like hours, and sent to bed without supper. Despite all this, and despite the vaguely insulting name she had been given, Nephivah couldn’t help but smile into her pillow. She had a gang. She had friends.


	3. A Quest, Of Sorts

After the incident with the alchemist Nephivah’s parents confined her to the house for several weeks. This punishment was supposed to make her feel remorse for her actions, but it did little good. As soon as she was allowed outside again she immediately sought out Nix and his gang.  
  
The next few months were some of the happiest of her life. Nephivah and her new friends were together as often as they were able, lessons and families allowing, and Balmora was their playground. They spent many a long afternoon exploring the network of flat rooftops around the city- which were easy to access once you knew where to climb- or hanging around the docks like a gaggle of seagulls, filching handfuls of sweet dried fruit whenever a merchant left their stores unattended. There were also frequent run-ins with the other child gangs of Balmora, which ended in fisticuffs more often than not. Nephivah would occasionally return home of an evening sporting a black eye or a split lip. Her parents despaired, but she wore her injuries like medals.  
  
The gang fancied themselves as hoodlums and troublemakers, but in reality were little more than a nuisance. Their misdemeanours were of the pettiest sort - loitering, scrapping, a little light theft. Shalk was once chased halfway across Labor Town by a Nord sailor whom he had insulted a little too loudly. They had told stories about that day for months.  
  
Whenever one of the cityfolk made a complaint about Nix and his friends one of the guards would be sent out to deal with them. That guard was usually Thovasi Indalen, a rangy Dunmer woman of middling years. She wore the armour of House Hlaalu and the permanently irritated expression of one who is forced to deal with delinquent children several times a week. As she had shooed them away from storefronts or turned their pockets out for contraband more frequently than any of the other guards in the city, Thovasi became the gang’s casual nemesis. They went out of their way to annoy her, and in return she punished them affectionately. It was a good system.  
  
Nephivah and Shalk were sat by the waterfront one rainy day in First Seed when Thovasi approached them. They were surprised to see her; for once they had been behaving themselves. Nix, who was usually the catalyst for their troublemaking, was away visiting family in Tel Ahrun. In fact Nephivah would not have come out in the drizzle at all, but her newborn sister had been screaming for what seemed like days now and she was in desperate need of some peace and quiet.  
  
“We didn’t do nothing,” Shalk barked when he saw Thovasi trudging over. “Swear on my ancestors. Right, Scrib?” He elbowed Nephivah in the ribs.  
  
“Yeah,” Nephivah shoved him back, harder. “We’re just sitting. Sitting’s not a crime.”  
  
“No, it isn’t,” Thovasi said at length. Her heavy helmet muffled her words slightly.  
  
“So what do you want then?” Shalk asked.  
  
“I want your help,” the guard replied.  
  
Nephivah didn’t believe her. Pulling a smooth, flat stone from her pocket, she flicked her wrist and watched it skim across the surface of the Odai River once, twice, three times. “Sounds fishy to me.”  
  
Shalk nodded in agreement. Thovasi sighed, and would have rubbed her temples if they weren’t covered by half an inch of bonemold.  
  
“Listen,” she tried again. “I could do with some assistance. There’s a few drakes in it for you if you do well.”  
  
The children perked up at this. The promise of coin was always a compelling one.  
  
Satisfied that she had their attention, Thovasi continued. “Masalinie Merian lost one of her rings at the market last Fredas. Bloody woman won’t stop pestering me about it. I’ve got better things to do than go poking around between the fruit stalls but if you two can find it I’ll make sure you’re rewarded.”  
  
Shalk looked to Nephivah for guidance. It took her all of ten seconds to consider Thovasi’s proposition. What she was offering was a quest, of sorts - not quite as thrilling as the ones she daydreamed about on a regular basis, but a quest nonetheless.  
  
“We’ll do it,” Nephivah said.  
  
The two children hurried off to the marketplace, pushing each other out of the way as they hurried to see who could find the ring first.  
  
It was an excellent ploy, of course. As well as ridding herself of some unwanted work, Thovasi could rest easy for a few hours in the knowledge that the little fetchers were keeping busy. Grinning beneath her helmet, she strolled back towards the barracks.

* * *

Nephivah and Shalk hunted for the ring for what felt like hours. Rain battered their faces and dripped coldly down the necks of their shirts, but they persisted doggedly with their task. They pried open crates and pushed aside barrels, crawled under rickety tables and dug around in sacks of grain. They were yelled at several times, and Shalk earned himself a thick ear from poking around in the bowyer’s satchel. They were having tremendous fun.  
  
The sun was beginning to set when Nephivah spotted something glimmering in the corner of her eye. By the roots of a scrubby tree, half hidden by dirt, was the unmistakable glint of gold. Giddy with excitement, she fell to her knees and began scrabbling around in the mud. After a little digging with her fingers she pulled out a slim gold ring, set with a stone the colour of blood. She wiped it clean on her shirt front. It had been well trodden into the ground, but there wasn’t a scratch on it.  
  
“Shalk!” she hollered. “I found it!”  
  
He ran over to her, panting a little. “Damn! I must have looked there a dozen times!”  
  
“Not very well you didn’t,” Nephivah said. “Come on. Let’s take this ba-”  
  
“What’s that you’ve got there, Scrib?” A familiar voice cut across the square. Netch was standing a few yards away from them, her arms folded over her chest.  
  
“Nice dress,” Shalk chuckled. Their friend was wearing a frock of green and gold instead of her usual plain linens.  
  
“Shut up,” she snapped. “My parents made me go to Temple. Don’t change the subject. Scrib, what’s in your hand?”  
  
Reluctantly, Nephivah held the ring out for inspection. Netch’s eyes widened at the sight of it.  
  
“We’re taking it to Thovasi,” Nephivah said quickly.  
  
“That old hag? Why?”  
  
“She said she’d give us a reward for finding it.”  
  
“C’mon Netch,” Shalk said. “We could see if my brother’ll buy us mazte again.”  
  
“A reward?” Netch scoffed. “Don’t be thick. We can sell it to Sottilde at the Corner Club for ten times what that awful guard offered you. Give it here-”  
  
She snatched for the ring, but Nephivah sprang to her feet and held it out of her reach. Netch looked shocked at first, but her expression quickly melted into fury. In Nix’s absence she was the de facto leader of their little gang. For Nephivah to challenge her was unthinkable.  
  
“I don’t think you heard me, Scrib,” she hissed. “Hand it over. Now.”  
  
“No.” Nephivah said, setting her feet. “We told Thovasi we’d bring her the ring. That’s what we’re going to do.”  
  
For a long minute the two girls stared each other down. Shalk hovered on the sidelines, seemingly unsure which side to pick. After an agonising pause, Netch grunted and took a step back. Nephivah was by far the scrappier of the two, and was sure to win if it came to blows.  
  
“Fine,” she spat. “But Nix won’t be happy about this.”  
  
As she skulked away, Shalk twisted his fingers nervously in front of him. “She’s right, you know.”  
  
“I know,” Nephivah said, pocketing the ring. “Doesn’t matter now. Let’s go find Thovasi.”

* * *

 

Thovasi was pleasantly surprised when Nephivah presented her with the ring. She had not really expected the children to find it. True to her word, she rewarded them with a heavy coin each, then put her feet up for the evening.  
  
Nephivah spent most of her hard-earned bounty at the bookshop in the Commercial District. Dorisa Darvel sold many of the cheap adventure stories Nephivah was fond of, and the money was enough to buy her two of the flimsy volumes. Most of the rest went on a paper bag half full of sweet dried marshmerrow, a personal favourite.  
  
She took her purchases back home where, mercifully, her infant sister was finally sleeping. Moving quietly so as not to wake the baby, Nephivah climbed the stairs to her room and read her new books by candlelight, chewing on the sweet pulp and imagining herself as the heroes in her stories.  
  
It was an evening well spent, and it almost distracted her from the fear of what Nix would say when he returned to Balmora and found out what she had done. Almost.


	4. Revolt

The falling out that Nix and Nephivah had upon his return from Tel Ahrun was the first of many to come. He was furious that she had gone behind his back to run errands for Thovasi. He saw it as a betrayal, an act of treason against their little group. Netch stood at Nix’s shoulder while he barked harsh words at Nephivah, her face triumphant. After that the gang didn’t speak to each other for days. They eventually fell back into each other’s company, but it marked the start of the slow disintegration of their friendship.   
  
As they passed into their teenage years they began to spend more and more time apart. They would still meet up by the waterside on occasion, to share a stolen bottle of wine and complain about their parents, but their friendship lacked the fearsome strength it had possessed when they were children. They caused less trouble these days. Younger siblings and cousins were rushing in to fill the void of delinquency they had left.   
  
One day, not long after Nephivah’s turned fourteen, Nix announced to the group that he was done with childish nicknames. His word, as always, was law. They called him Llandris after that. It didn’t take long for Netch to do away with her moniker too and start going by Endase again. In time Shalk went back to being Ano, albeit reluctantly. They stopped calling Nephivah Scrib too, but really she had always been Nephivah.   
  
As Nephivah grew older Thovasi’s little tasks started coming more often. They were never of much consequence - she might be asked to deliver letters, or chase vermin out of someone’s basement. Each successful job earned her a few coins. She worried about what her friends might say at first, but Llandris cared less about her actions than Nix had. Llandris was too busy learning about his family’s import business to concern himself with such things. Endase spent all of her time at the local Mage’s Guild setting things on fire, and Ano had found his vocation working in the kitchen at the Eight Plates. They all had their minds on matters other than Nephivah’s pastimes.   
  
Free of the scrutiny of her peers, Nephivah found she quite enjoyed helping the guardswoman. She liked Thovasi, with her steely eyes and brusque pragmatism, and it kept her occupied.   
  
Her father was trying to teach her the logistics of caravaning so that she might work for him once she was of an age, but Nephivah found she had no head for the figures involved. It may simply have been that she didn’t care enough to pay attention - the life of a wagoneer seemed to her an awfully dull one, though she couldn’t imagine an alternative. Adventures were things that happened to other people, after all.   
  
So Nephivah drifted lazily into adulthood, doing small jobs for Thovasi and resigning herself to a life of mercantile boredom. She did not grow to the height her lanky childhood frame had once suggested, but there was a wiry swiftness about her that made pickpockets think twice before trying to cut her purse. Her auburn hair darkened to the colour of claret, and a spattering of freckles across her nose stood out against the pale blue of her skin. She had inherited her mother’s almond eyes and her father’s sharp jaw. It had never occurred to her that she might be considered handsome, although it occasionally occurred to others.   
  
On Nephivah’s eighteenth birthday there was a knock at the door of the Sadrys home. Her sister Sovali, now seven and precocious, insisted on answering it as usual. Nephivah was reading in the kitchen when Sovali shouted to her.   
  
“Neph! You’re being arrested!”   
  
“What?” Nephivah put down her book and walked into the hall, wondering what yarns Sovali was spinning now.   
  
A Hlaalu guard, armed and armoured, was standing in the doorway. Nephivah stiffened for a moment, frantically trying to remember having broken the law, but relaxed when the guard removed her helmet.   
  
“Happy birthday,” Thovasi smiled, the lines around her eyes creasing. “Come. Take a walk with me.”

* * *

 

They strolled around the city perimeter for a while in companionable silence. At first Nephivah had assumed that Thovasi had a job for her, but almost half an hour had passed and no such offers had been made. It was a warm day, bright and clear, but Nephivah couldn’t imagine that the guard had merely invited her out for a constitutional.

  
When they reached the Silt Strider docks along the city wall Thovasi stopped. Taking a seat on high narrow steps, she patted the stone beside her. Nephivah sat down obediently.   
  
They had been staring out at the street for a few minutes, watching the townspeople go about their business, before Thovasi spoke. “I’m retiring.”   
  
“Really?”   
  
“Had to happen eventually.”   
  
“I know. But you’re…” Nephivah gestured vaguely. “I don’t know. I suppose I thought you’d always be there. Like Red Mountain. Or the smell by the docks.”   
  
Thovasi barked a laugh. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”   
  
“Why are you telling me, anyway?” Nephivah asked. “If it’s about the jobs I don’t mind. I’m supposed to be starting work with Eric in a few weeks. That should bring me in some decent coin.”   
  
“It’s not about that,” the guardswoman waved her hand dismissively. “I need a replacement.”   
  
Nephivah blinked at her, suspecting she knew where the conversation was going but not sure enough to ask.   
  
“You’d be good at it,” Thovasi continued. “You’re smart. You’re tough. You do as you’re told.”   
  
“But I don’t know how to fight.”   
  
“No one knows how to fight when they start, girl. There’s training for all that.”   
  
“Would they really let me join?” Nephivah was starting to bristle with excitement. Guarding a city seemed to her a far more worthy task than carting boxes around Vvardenfell.   
  
“With my recommendation, yes,” Thovasi nodded. “Speak to Danar Dalomo at the Council Manor. He’ll take care of the paperwork. I suggest you take this offer while it’s fresh, I’m travelling to the mainland next week.”   
  
“Thank you,” Nephivah said, feeling that the words were inadequate somehow. “I’ll miss you.”   
  
“Don’t go soft on me now, girl,” Thovasi cuffed her gently. “You’re right for the job. I hope to see you armoured by the time I’m gone.”   
  
“You will. I promise.”

* * *

 

Nephivah went to the Council Manor the next morning, and was in training by the end of the week. The heavy bonemold armour felt like more of a hindrance than a help, but years of street corner scrapping had gifted her with reflexes that stopped her feeling entirely useless. The blade was another matter. She had never even held a real sword before, but once she had become acclimatised to its surprising weight she took to the weapon like a dreugh to water. It was almost like dancing, the measured rhythm of thrust and parry as she sparred with her fellow recruits at the barracks. For the first time in her young life she felt like she was good at something.

  
Her parents had been less put out than she had feared. Being a guardsman brought in a decent wage, and once her father had recovered from the loss of a potential employee he began to wax lyrical about the trade opportunities that having a daughter in the Hlaalu guard could bring.   
  
It was honest work, and easier than she would have expected. The citizens of Balmora were mostly merchants and kept largely out of trouble. Having an Imperial Legion fort just outside of town certainly didn’t hurt either. Her job largely consisted of chasing down petty thieves, breaking up fights between drunkards, or scaring off children causing mischief. The last gave her a particular pleasure, as though she were continuing Thovasi’s legacy.   
  
For the most part the guard presence in Balmora was a preventative measure rather than a military force. Nephivah rarely saw anything approaching a real fight. Theoretically good though this was, she couldn’t help but feel a guilty disappointment at the lack of action.   
  
The rare exceptions to this were when the odd group of bandits or smugglers would hole up too close to the city walls for comfort. Small raiding parties would be sent out to deal with these miscreants before they had a chance to threaten the town, usually as a joint force with Legion soldiers from Moonmoth Fort.   
  
Nephivah relished these occasions. Trekking out into the hills to drive wrongdoers away from her home seemed a far better way to earn her drakes than kicking booze hounds out of the Cornerclub. She also enjoyed the company of the legionnaires. Diverse as Balmora was compared to some parts of Morrowind, the Dunmer still mostly kept to themselves. It was interesting to speak to people from other parts of Tamriel, to hear their stories and learn their customs. If those closer to home thought less of her for this, they did not mention it.

* * *

 

Nearly three years to the day after she joined the guard Nephivah was sent on one of these out-of-town missions. It had been a simple job- some skooma dealers had set up in a disused egg mine near Foyada Mamaea, but they had all been so addled on their own merchandise that the soldiers managed to round them up without bloodshed. Once they had returned them safely to the dungeons at the Fort, Nephivah had invited a couple of her legionnaire friends for a drink in Balmora. As they were all off duty for the evening, they accepted.   
  
Gaia Marcellus and Priscus Stravo were both around her age, and had been stationed in Morrowind for less than a year each. Nephivah had taken it upon herself to introduce them to her her little corner of Vvardenfell, and in return they described what life was like back home in Cyrodiil. They had become good friends, and Nephivah was glad of the company. Ano had moved to Vivec to cook for one of the Hlaalu nobles, and these days if she passed Llandris or Endase on the street they would barely exchange pleasantries.   
  
The Eight Plates was busy that evening, and they just managed to find a table big enough to seat the three of them. It was Gaia’s turn to buy, and she returned from the bar with a bottle of Cyrodiilic brandy and three clay cups.   
  
Nephivah groaned. “This swill again? You’re in Morrowind. You could at least give sujamma one more try.”   
  
“After last time?” Priscus said. “You couldn’t pay me to drink that gutrot. I was still tasting it a week later.”   
  
“Don’t remind me,” Gaia made a face as she poured out the liquor. “Anyway, here’s to a good day’s work.”   
  
“And to a good night’s drinking,” Nephivah touched her cup to Gaia’s.   
  
They talked of small things as they drank. One of Gaia’s superiors had been giving her a hard time, and Priscus’ last three letters to his sweetheart back in Skingrad had gone unanswered. Nephivah was just launching into a rant about her sister’s new habit of bursting into her room at ungodly hours of the morning when Priscus fell silent.   
  
“Hey,” Nephivah nudged him with her boot. “We didn’t rub you the wrong way then, did we? I’m sure your girl’ll get back to you soon.”   
  
Priscus shook his head. “It’s not that.”   
  
The women were facing the wall of the tavern, but from where he was sitting Priscus was looking at the door. Nephivah turned around to see what had put her friend in such ill spirits.   
  
It was immediately clear what had caught his attention. A well-dressed Dunmer woman had just entered the room, and was speaking curtly to one of the barmaids. Walking slightly behind her was a khajiit in a plain shirt and trousers, his eyes low. He wore a pair of metal bracers on his wrists.   
  
Gaia visibly shuddered. “You never get used to seeing that,” she muttered. “Sorry,” she amended, looking apologetically at Nephivah. “Didn’t mean to offend.”   
  
“Not at all,” Nephivah shook her head. “I just don’t really think about it, I suppose. It’s just something that happens here. Like ash storms. Might seem strange to you, but in Morrowind it’s not unusual.”   
  
“Doesn’t it bother you though?” Priscus blurted out. “People being treated like that? Like livestock?”   
  
Nephivah felt strangely defensive in spite of herself. “I don’t know. My family don’t have slaves.”   
  
“I didn’t mean-”   
  
“Hey,” Gaia interrupted. “Let’s not go there, alright? It’s been a long day.”   
  
The other two nodded their assent and returned to their drinks. They had learned from experience that these clashes of culture were best avoided if they wished to remain on good terms.   
  
Nephivah couldn’t help but peer over her shoulder again. As she watched the noblewoman turned sharply to face the Khajiit at her heels and he flinched away from her reflexively. Something sour settled in the pit of Nephivah’s stomach. She looked away.   
  
Gaia was pouring their third drink of the evening when the door of the Eight Plates burst open. A Hlaalu guard shouldered his way through the crowded taproom, the patrons parting quickly to allow him through. From his armour and the glass hammer at his hip Nephivah recognised him as her superior officer, Captain Ovethi.   
  
“Sadrys!” he barked. “Are you sober enough for duty?”   
  
“Yes, sir,” Nephivah said, standing to attention. She was; they had made slow progress with the brandy and she was only just starting to the familiar tingling in her extremities.   
  
“These two Legion?” he pointed at her companions and they nodded in confirmation. “Good. You’ll want to come too.”   
  
“What’s going on?” Nephivah asked.   
  
“Disturbance at the Council Manor. No time to explain. Get a move on.”   
  
They did as they were instructed. None of them were wearing armour but as they all had weapons on their person they were deemed able to help. Ovethi broke into a jog as they passed through the Commerical District, causing townsfolk to stop and whisper to one another. Nephivah had more than a few questions of her own.   
  
They heard the mob before they saw it. The sound of furious shouting echoed around the near empty streets of High Town. The group picked up their pace. Ovethi led them down a side alley, and they emerged into the plaza in front of the Hlaalu Council Manor.   
  
There must have been a hundred men and women crowded into the square. Nephivah assessed the group quickly. They were mostly Dunmeri. The majority were unarmed, although many were brandishing torches and all were angry. She recognised many of them as local merchants and traders. Panicking, she scanned the crowd quickly for her father, but could see no sign of anyone from Eric’s caravans.   
  
A line of guards separated the mob from the manor itself. Ovethi waved his hand, and Nephivah and her friends fell into formation with them. There did not seem to have been any blood spilled yet, but it looked like it was only a matter of time.   
  
“What’s going on?” Nephivah asked the guard next to her.   
  
“New liquor tariffs were announced today,” he grunted, keeping his eyes on the crowd. “Higher than expected. They’re not best pleased.”   
  
Captain Ovethi stepped to the front of the line. “Go back to your homes!” He shouted above the din. “This will not be resolved tonight!”   
  
“When will it be resolved then?” A female voice carried from the back of the square and the assembled merchants roared in agreement.   
  
“The Council are currently in talks-” Ovethi was drowned out by the protestations that followed.   
  
“To Oblivion with the Council!”   
  
“We won’t stand for this!”   
  
Nephivah was surprised to find that she was more than a little frightened. Dressing in civilian clothes made her feel vulnerable at the best of times, let alone in the epicenter of a soon-to-be riot.   
  
“The Legion are on their way,” the guard beside her said as if sensing her discomfort. “Just got to keep them calm until then.”   
  
There seemed little hope of that. Already individuals were breaking away from the crowd and trying to push between the Hlaalu guards. The lawmen formed walls with their shields to push them back, but that could only last for so long. Nephivah swallowed. She was not sure that she could strike back if it came to it. Their anger was not unreasonable.   
  
Suddenly there was a murmur of activity from the mob. One man pushed through to the centre of the plaza to great cheers from the people around him. He stepped into the gap between the merchants and the guards, and came to stand toe to toe with Captain Ovethi. As he moved forwards the torchlight illuminated his sharp features and ashen skin. Nephivah recognised him immediately. She felt sick.   
  
“The people of Vvardenfell will not tolerate this interference any longer!” Llandris snarled. “The Empire continues to rob us blind and Hlaalu sits back and does nothing!”   
  
_ Nix _ , Nephivah thought.  _ You were Nix, once. _   
  
“The new taxes came by order of the King,” Ovethi remained stoic despite the furore building around him. “House Hlaalu is not to blame.”   
  
“It’s always the same excuses. Eventually someone will have to pay.” Llandris took a step forward. The light from the flames glinted off the knife at his belt.   
  
“Llandris!” Nephivah had dashed forward before she knew what she was doing. “It doesn’t have to be like this!”   
  
At first Llandris looked startled, but his face contorted into a scowl when he realised who was speaking to him. “Of course. I should have expected to see you here, Scrib.”   
  
“Listen to me,” Nephivah spoke quickly, positioning herself between Llandris and Ovethi. She kept her right hand on the hilt of her shortsword, but did not draw it. “No one needs to come to harm tonight. You know this won’t end well if someone sheds blood.”   
  
“Do not speak of things of which you know nothing!” he snapped. “How can you of all people claim to know how this will end? The Emperor lines your pockets just as he empties ours!”   
  
The crowd broke out into cheers once more. Nephivah suddenly saw herself as she must look to the others in the square. She suddenly felt very young, and very small, and very stupid.   
  
“We’re not enemies, Nix.” Her voice faltered.   
  
Llandris laughed, but it was a harsh noise with no mirth in it. “Please! You’re an Imperial lapdog, Sadrys, always have been. Ever since that bitch guardswoman got you in her pocket.” He spat on the ground at her feet. “You’re a traitor to your people. Your Ancestors must be ashamed.”   
  
Something inside Nephivah caught then, and ignited. Her fingers tightened around the hilt of her sword. For the space of half a breath she looked Llandris in the eyes, and could see the disgust in them. Then the sound of a hunting horn broke across the plaza, and the crowd scattered. Nephivah became lost in the throng. When she finally got her bearings Llandris was gone.   
  
The Legion had arrived at last. There were at least sixty of them, a dozen of those on horses. Most of the merchants who had been protesting slipped away from the plaza, knowing they were beaten. The few that remained fell silent as one of the mounted soldiers came forward.   
  
“I bring word from Vivec City,” the legionnaire announced. “House Hlaalu shares your concerns regarding the new tariffs. The Council have convened, and have sent deputations to the Duke to express this. It is out of their hands now. I would ask you to please go back to your homes.”   
  
It didn’t take long for the remnants of the mob to disperse. After a while the guards and the Legion were the only people left in the plaza. Nephivah spotted Gaia and Priscus speaking to their commanding officer, but decided against going to join to them. She didn’t want company. All she wanted to do was go home, and sleep for a very long time.


	5. The Road To Vivec

Mercifully there was no further disorder after the first night. Once they had been placated by House Hlaalu the merchants went back to their businesses as usual, although they continued to complain about the tariffs.  
  
All except one. Infuriated by the events of the previous night, and unhappy with his father’s refusal to take further action, Llandris Marvani left for Tel Ahrun. He told his friends that his cousin had a lucrative business there, one far from the prying hands of the Empire. When this information eventually filtered down to Nephivah she had to admit a certain relief. She had been anxious ever since the standoff at the manor. While she quietly mourned the end of their childhood friendship, she knew it was for the best if they did not see each other again.  
  
A different friend had proved more stalwart over the last several years. Even after he left for Vivec City Ano continued to write Nephivah letters on a regular basis. Her responses were sporadic, not having the patience to maintain regular correspondence, but she did her best. He was always happy to hear news from home, and Nephivah relished his descriptions of the vast cantons and shadowed canals of Vvardenfell’s capital.  
  
Nephivah returned home one evening in Frostfall to find one such letter on her kitchen table. Cutting it open with her belt knife, she pulled up a seat and began to read.  
  
 _Neph,  
  
_ _Hope you’re keeping well.  
  
_ _I have an invitation for you - the Rivels are going to visit friends in Mournhold for the whole of Sun’s Dusk, so the staff and I have the mansion to ourselves for a while. ‘Housekeeping’, they call it, if you can imagine!  
  
_ _If you feel like seeing how the other half live for a while you’re more than welcome to visit. A break would do you good. Come and stay for a week. It’s been too long.  
  
_ _Give my regards to your family. I hope I’ll be seeing you soon.  
  
_ __Ano  
  
Nephivah gave this some consideration. She hadn’t taken any time off since joining the guard. The thought had simply never occurred to her. The prospect of staying in a Hlaalu mansion didn’t especially pique her interest, but she had always wanted to visit Vivec City.  
  
When she asked Captain Ovethi for permission to take leave he was quick to grant it. Since the incident in the Manor square some of his peers had been muttering about whether or not she was fit to continue her duties. He hoped that getting her out of the city for a while would provide the perfect opportunity to smooth over some of this talk. Ovethi liked Nephivah, despite her boldness, or perhaps because of it. He hoped that her career with the guard wouldn’t be cut short so prematurely.  
  
Nephivah remained blissfully unaware that she was the subject of so much tense discussion. She was simply looking forward to her holiday.

* * *

 

Balen offered to let his daughter ride south with his caravans, but she politely declined. The trip would be her first time out of Balmora in years, and she wanted to experience the journey as much as the destination. It was not a long way, two days walking at most. The roads were good and rarely dangerous during daylight.  
  
She packed very little, knowing that food and beds aplenty awaited her in the mansion of Ano’s employers. In her satchel she stowed a little bread and jerky, a couple of late autumn apples, a few items of clothing picked almost at random, a small skin of water and a tinderbox. Her coin she kept inside her clothing, out of habit more than concern. After some deliberation she strapped her shortsword to her hip. She had dealt with too many robbed travellers to risk going unarmed.  
  
On the first morning of Sun’s Dusk Nephivah said goodbye to her family and headed south. It was an unseasonably balmy day, the air still and warm, and within an hour she had shrugged out of her heavy winter coat and slung it over her shoulder.  
  
It felt good to be out of the city. The occasional wagon passed her, the guars kicking up dust as they waddled along the wide dirt thoroughfare, but apart from that she saw few other people. Insects buzzed lazily around the flowers that grew along the roadside, and occasionally the hills would flatten out to reveal miles of lush pastureland. Farms and plantations became a more frequent sight the further south she travelled. Herds of netches floated above some of the fields, almost translucent in the sunlight.  
  
Nephivah reached the town of Pelagiad as the sky was darkening. She stopped at the Halfway Tavern for the night, taking her supper in the taproom before retiring to bed. The room was small but clean enough. She pulled off her boots and hung her weapon on the bedpost before methodically stretching her limbs. She had walked almost the entire day, and was desperate to collapse onto the narrow mattress, but she was sure to be sore come morning if she neglected this part of her routine.  
  
Once she was satisfied that she would not wake feeling like her legs were made of lead, Nephivah crawled under the sheets and fell asleep almost immediately.

* * *

 

The next day was not as pleasant as its predecessor. Dull grey clouds smothered the winter sun, threatening rain but not delivering. Fearing she might have to make the last leg of her journey in the middle of a downpour, Nephivah left Pelagiad as soon as she awoke.  
  
Having skipped breakfast at the tavern she chewed bits of bread and strips of jerky as she walked, washing them down with the tepid dregs from her waterskin. She silently reprimanded herself for not filling it up back in town, but by then it was too late to go back. If she kept up her pace she could reach Vivec by nightfall and have all the drink she pleased.  
  
It was early afternoon before she allowed herself to rest. It had started to rain a little, a light, misty drizzle that soaked through Nephivah’s clothes and left her shivering and miserable. Hoping it would pass she found a dry spot under a large broad-leafed tree and sat down, hugging her knees to her chest for warmth.  
  
She was digging through her satchel for the last remaining apple when she heard someone screaming. Startled, she looked around for the source of the cry, but it came from nowhere she could see. Right hand hovering above the hilt of her blade, Nephivah rose slowly to her feet.  
  
A few seconds later the howling began anew, and she realised it was coming from somewhere to the south of where she stood. Walking down the road a little further, she came to a narrow path that cut through the hills towards Seyda Neen. Through the fine haze of rain she could make out two figures. One of them was standing, the other cowering before the first. Nephivah broke into a jog, blinking against the moisture that clouded her eyes. As she drew closer and her vision cleared she began to make sense of what she was seeing.  
  
An Argonian woman lay shaking in the mud. She was clearly weak, but had one arm raised above her head to shield her face. A pair of heavy metal bracers encircled her wrists. The source of her fear was a broad Dunmer man, his long hair hanging in dripping rat tails around his face. He held a heavy truncheon in his upraised hand. As Nephivah watched he raised his arm to strike the woman whimpering at his feet.  
  
“Stop!” Nephivah yelled, skidding to a halt a dozen feet away from them. “Leave her be!”  
  
The man paused, then lowered his arm. Slowly, almost leisurely, he turned to face her.  
  
“Excuse me?” his voice was metal on stone.  
  
Nephivah took a deep breath, trying not to sound as uncertain as she felt. “I said, leave her be. She was screaming so loud I heard it across the hills. That’s _enough_.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” the man said. “Do you own this worm?” He jabbed a finger towards the Argonian. “No. _I_ do. Deciding what’s ‘enough’ isn’t your job. It’s mine. And I’m not through with her yet.”  
  
“What crime did she commit to deserve a beating like that?”  
  
Nephivah wasn’t sure what she was doing. She had acted on instinct, and now she was stuck in the wilderness with a man who was clearly dangerous and no idea how to act next. All she could think to do was to keep him talking until she came up with a plan.  
  
“She tried to escape,” his tone was almost conversational. “Didn’t do a very good job of it.”  
  
“So you beat her half-dead?”  
  
He sighed. “If there’s a hole in your shirt, you darn it. If your shears are stiff, you oil them. I’m fixing my property, miss. _My_ property. I’ll thank you to take your hand off that blade and be on your way. I’m doing no wrong in the eyes of the law.”  
  
Nephivah looked to the Argonian lying prone in the road. The rain slipped off her scales and pooled around her limp body. She had stopped trying to defend herself. For a moment she looked up and her eyes met Nephivah’s. They were desperate, pleading. In that moment, Nephivah knew with a heavy certainty that if she turned and walked away the slave would be dead within the hour.  
  
“I can’t let you do this,” Nephivah shook her head.  
  
The man rolled his eyes, his patience seemingly at an end. “I don’t have time for this. Run along, now. You, come with me.” He reached down to grab the Argonian’s arm.  
  
She must have been saving the last of her strength. Hissing through her teeth the slave lashed out at her owner, scratching wildly at his face and neck. Her claws had been filed down, but one must have caught his eye. He fell away swearing, clutching his face as blood trickled through his fingers.  
  
“That’s it,” he snarled, lifting his club. “That was your last chance.”  
  
Nephivah didn’t remember moving. Somehow she had closed the space between them but it happened without her noticing. She blinked, and when she opened her eyes she was in front of him. He was standing very still.  
  
Her hand was warm.  
  
She looked down to see that it was still clenched tightly around the hilt of her shortsword. She couldn’t see the blade. At some point in those last empty seconds it had been driven deep into the slaver’s chest. This did not register with Nephivah as something that _she_ had done, only something that __had been done. Dark blood spilled over her fingers and dripped down to mingle with the rainwater.  
  
  
The man spluttered, an awful, wet gurgling sound. He stared at Nephivah, his face contorted in disbelief. Then it fell slack. Nephivah let go of her sword and he slumped to the ground, the hilt still protruding from his breast.  
  
Nephivah breathed slowly, concentrating on the air as it filled and emptied her lungs. Her mind was blank. At the edge of her consciousness something buzzed, as though there were a fly hovering just out of her sight.  
  
“Listen to me.” The hoarse voice made Nephivah jump. She had not realised the Argonian was standing beside her. “You did the right thing.”  
  
Nephivah didn’t respond. She carried on staring at the man’s body, crumpled in the road.  
  
“He beat us every day. Only once if we were lucky,” the slave said. “Once he beat my friend Ji so badly that she never woke up. He was not a good man. He deserved to die.”  
  
The Argonian crouched next to her owner. At first Nephivah thought she was praying, but then realised that she was carefully sifting through his pockets. After a minute of searching she pulled out a small silver key and tucked it inside her shirt. She rose to her feet unsteadily, favouring one leg.  
  
“My name is Tahn,” she said, inclining her head a little. “What’s yours?”  
  
“Nephivah.”  
  
“You have done me a great kindness, Nephivah. I never expected this from… from one of your kind.” It was hard to tell with her reptilian features, but Tahn looked a little embarrassed by her words.  
  
Nephivah nodded dumbly at her, then looked back to the slaver’s corpse. Bending down, she braced her foot against his shoulder and pulled her sword from his chest. She wiped the blade clean on his trousers before returning it to her scabbard.  
  
“What do we do now?” The Argonian said quietly.  
  
Nephivah was silent for a long time. “We have to move him,” she said at last. “Someone will come down here soon enough.”  
  
“You’re right,” Tahn nodded. “Come. I know a place.”

* * *

 

Together they carried the body off the road and into the hills to the south. Nephivah took most of the weight. It was clear that the Argonian was in pain. From the way she was breathing it sounded like she may have broken some ribs.  
  
They walked for a long time. Tahn led the way over the uneven terrain, eventually coming to a stop in an unremarkable looking patch of scrub and bracken. Her reasons for stopping became clear when she pulled aside some of the foliage to reveal a rotting wooden door set into the hillside.  
  
“Old mine,” Tahn said as she pulled the door open. “Hid here for a few days. He caught me when I came out for water.”  
  
“No one knows about this place?”  
  
Tahn shook her head. “No. Empty. Kwama long-dead. No one will find him here.”  
  
Knowing she had little choice but to trust the Argonian, Nephivah dragged the slaver’s corpse as far back into the cave as her stamina would allow. Her whole body ached from hauling his dead weight through the hills. Once satisfied that he was well hidden she came back out into the open and helped Tahn cover up the door with branches once again.  
  
They walked back to the road together, not speaking or making eye contact. Both had a sense that the other needed some time to think.  
  
At one point an Imperial courier passed them, smiling a polite greeting to Nephivah. She smiled back, but her heart was pounding madly in her chest. She had killed a man. She had killed a man, and she was as good as dead herself if anyone found out what she had done.  
  
When the road forked they came to a halt. Tahn looked at Nephivah, then away again, seemingly unsure if she should speak.  
  
"Are you alright?" Nephivah asked, feeling suddenly guilty that she had not done so before.  
  
“You have done so much for me already,” Tahn said gently. “But there is something else I would ask you to do.”  
  
“What do you need?” Nephivah assumed that the Argonian was going to ask her for money for her journey. She had already decided to give it to her whether she asked or not.  
  
“There’s a place,” Tahn said. “In Ebonheart. Ji used to speak of it all the time. A place where people like me can go to be safe. To be free.”  
  
Nephivah wasn’t sure how to respond. “I’m on my way to Vivec,” she hazarded. “I can pay your passage from there to Ebonheart. It’s no trouble.”  
  
“That won’t work.” The Argonian shook her head and lifted up her wrists, still clad in their metal bracers. “Even without these someone would see me for what I was and send me back to the plantation. I need- I would appreciate it if you came with me. An Argonian slave travelling with a Dunmer is nothing unusual. No one would question it.”  
  
Nephivah stared towards the east, where the angular shapes of Vivec City could be made out in the distance. Just a few hour’s walk away was food and wine and a warm bed, and a friend who would not in a thousand years think her capable of cold-blooded murder. She would have given anything to be there.  
  
But then she looked back to Tahn. The Argonian was right. No amount of coin in the world could make her look like anything other than a runaway slave. She was filthy, the clothes she wore little more than rags. Her injuries needed treating and her limp was becoming more pronounced with every step she took. Left to wander Vvardenfell on her own she would be captured or dead by the week’s end. Nephivah knew she could not leave Tahn, now, not after she had already killed to save her life.  
  
“Very well,” Nephivah said. “I’ll come with you.”  
  
Tahn clasped her hands together in gratitude. “Thank you. You can’t know what this means to me.”  
  
“It’s alright. Now, let me find something to splint your leg with. We’ve got a long walk ahead of us tonight.”


	6. Have You Seen The Twin Lamps?

It took the unlikely companions a long time to reach Ebonheart. Between Nephivah’s exhaustion and Tahn’s injuries they travelled at a glacial pace, stopping frequently to rest and share the last of Nephivah’s provisions. The lights of Vivec glowed softly in the distance, a reminder of what could have been.  
  
It was deep into the night by the time they crossed the bridge into Ebonheart. The great dragon statue in the castle square loomed out of the mist, its serpentine form indistinct in the darkness. Its grandeur contrasted starkly with the buildings of the town, their grey stone and solid western-style architecture the epitome of function over form.  
  
The bridge gates were manned by Imperial Legion soldiers with torches, all of whom looked somewhere between tired and bored. One of them gave Nephivah a perfunctory nod as she walked past him. He barely gave Tahn a second glance.  
  
This had been the way all the travellers they had encountered along the road had treated them. It made Nephivah decidedly uncomfortable, as though she were walking alongside a ghost visible to no one but her.  
  
“Isn’t that strange for you?” Nephivah asked when they were out of earshot of the soldiers. “Being ignored all the time?”  
  
Tahn sloped her angular shoulders in an estimation of a human shrug. “You get used to it. Plus, times like this, it helps. People see slaves the same way they see animals. They don’t expect you to think for yourself.”  
  
Nephivah didn’t know what to say to that. She hugged her coat closer around herself to ward off the cold, trying not to think of how many times she had looked straight through someone like Tahn.  
  
“Do you have any idea where this place is?” she asked the Argonian, changing the subject. “Or what it is, for that matter?”  
  
Tahn shook her head. “No. I only know it’s in Ebonheart. I’m sorry, I know that’s not much to go on.”  
  
“I suppose asking someone is out of the question. ‘Excuse me, could you please point me towards the secret refuge for escaped slaves?’”  
  
“I hope it doesn’t come to that,” Tahn chuckled, but then suddenly stopped in her tracks. “Wait.”  
  
“Are you alright?” Nephivah asked. The Argonian was stood perfectly still, her eyes closed.  
  
“Yes. I’m listening.”  
  
Nephivah was not sure what exactly Tahn was supposed to be listening to. The city was deathly quiet, the whispering of the wind the only sound she could hear. She kept her mouth shut anyway.  
  
After a moment the Argonian opened her eyes and turned towards a path leading away from the town square.  
  
“It’s through there.”  
  
“What? How do you know?” Nephivah asked. Her words came out sounding more incredulous than she had intended them to.  
  
Tahn looked at her sidewise, as if unsure whether or not to tell her. “My people,” she said. “The Saxhleel - we are all connected through the Hist. It is present in all of us. So far from my homeland it is hard to hear the tree. But possible, if I concentrate.”  
  
Nephivah knew of Black Marsh’s ancient Hist trees and their importance to the Argonian people, but she had not realised that the connection was so symbiotic. “You can _hear_ other Argonians?”  
  
“‘Hear’ is the closest word for it in your tongue. The tree speaks to us. Though in Morrowind it is barely a whisper,” Tahn said. “I can feel more like me somewhere close. Quiet, but there. Come on.”  
  
Tahn led them through the empty streets of Ebonheart. She took a twisting, roundabout route, occasionally doubling back on herself or stopping to close her eyes and listen for a while. Nephivah wanted desperately to ask more questions about Tahn’s connection to the Hist and how it worked, but worried that doing so would be distracting at best and offensive at worst.  
  
Eventually Tahn and Nephivah arrived at a small square. There was nothing especially remarkable about it. A few more of the dull, blocky buildings surrounded a public well and a pavement of moss-covered stone. A thin cat was curled up on top of the wooden cover of the well, but it darted off into an alleyway when it saw the two of them approaching.  
  
“There.” Tahn pointed. “That’s the place. I’m sure of it.”  
  
Nephivah followed her gaze to one of the buildings. It looked more like a tax office than a sanctuary. A set of wide stone steps led up to a door of banded oak, candles burning in metal holders either side of it.  
  
As they drew closer Nephivah examined a small sign that had been nailed to the wood. It was inscribed with writing in Tamrielic, Dunmeris and what she guessed was Jel, the language of Black Marsh. She could only read the first two, but the words translated the same - ‘Argonian Mission’.  
  
“Seems you were right,” Nephivah said. “So. Are you ready?”  
  
“Yes.” Tahn’s voice was calm, but her hand shook as she reached up and knocked on the door.  
  
There was the sound of someone moving around inside. Tahn’s nostrils flared in agitation.  
  
Nephivah placed her hand gently on the Argonian’s shoulder. “It’s alright,” she said.  
  
Tahn opened her mouth to respond, but before she had chance to the door swung open. An Argonian in a heavily embroidered robe stood before them. He was tall, with scales the colour of pale sand, and from his bearing Nephivah guessed that he was someone important. A diplomat probably, given his residence.  
  
“What can I help you with at this hour?” he spoke slowly, his voice husky from sleep.  
  
The two women glanced at one another, seemingly unsure who should speak. It was only when she saw the way the Argonian man was looking at her that Nephivah realised how she and Tahn must have appeared.  
  
“She’s not mine,” Nephivah spoke quickly. “That is to say, I don’t own her. No one does. Not any more.” She trailed off clumsily, her cheeks burning.  
  
It was hard to tell in the dim light, but Nephivah thought she saw his face soften. He did not respond to Nephivah, but immediately turned to face Tahn.  
  
“Welcome, sister,” he said warmly. “May the Twin Lamps guide your way to freedom. Come inside. We’ll have a healer tend to your injuries.”  
  
“Thank you, sir,” Tahn bowed her head.  
  
He gestured with his hand. “None of that here. You may call me Im-Kilaya, if it pleases you.”  
  
He gestured for her Tahn to enter, but she hesitated on the threshold. Looking back at Nephivah, she gave her a last, gentle smile. “Thank you, my friend. May your waters always be calm.” Then she walked inside, stepping carefully on her injured leg.  
  
Im-Kilaya remained in the doorway, his eyes on Nephivah.  
  
“Thank you for bringing her here” he said. “You’re one of Ilmeni’s, I presume? I’m afraid I cannot compensate you for your troubles personally, but we have food and beds aplenty if you are in need of them.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know any Ilmeni.”  
  
The Argonian sniffed. “Oh? Who is your handler, then?”  
  
“I think you misunderstand me. I’m just a friend of Tahn’s, that’s all. I need to be on my way now.”  
  
“You were acting independently?” His eyes widened, just a little. “In that case, we really should speak further. I may have a proposition for you.”  
  
“Look, I really should go.” Nephivah was growing uncomfortable. She had only intended to escort Tahn to safety, nothing more. Im-Kilaya’s questions hinted at a larger tapestry than she wanted no part of.  
  
“Please, stay,” he urged. “If you just-”  
  
But Nephivah was already halfway across the square. Hurrying towards the streets Tahn had led her through earlier, she stepped into their shadows and did not look back.

* * *

As much as she wanted to get back on the road, Nephivah knew that sleep was more important. She managed to find a tavern that was still open, and traded a few coins for a bed that she collapsed into almost immediately.  
  
She awoke the following morning feeling ill and grimy. She had slept in her damp clothes, and could feel the beginnings of a headache in her temples. There was a small cabinet in the room on which sat a bowl of water and a small mirror. The water was stone cold but she washed with it anyway, gritting her teeth against the shivers that threatened to overwhelm her body. Rummaging through her satchel she even managed to find a shirt that was still moderately dry. Once she had changed into it she felt a little better, though not by much.  
  
In the tavern common room she broke her fast with a bowl of thin gruel and a hunk of dense, nutty bread. It was simple fare but it satisfied the ache in her belly. She also ordered a dram of sujamma, despite the early hour. The innkeeper gave her a strange look, but Nephivah knew from experience that a little of the stuff would help to ease her stiff limbs without doing much damage to her faculties.  
  
Nevertheless, when she left the building and stepped out onto the street she still felt a little lightheaded. The chill breeze whipped at her face, and she had to take a moment to collect herself.  
  
That was when she remembered. The events of the previous day, tucked away somewhere in the corner of her mind, all came flooding back at once.  
  
She had killed someone. Not in defence. Not because they had attacked her first. Because she had wanted to.  
  
Nephivah leant against the wall of the tavern. Suddenly she knew that there was no way that she could go to Vivec now. She couldn’t sit with her old friend and talk and laugh like nothing had happened, knowing that not even a day before she had hidden a man’s corpse in the Ascadian hills. She couldn’t even go back home, not yet. She needed time to think.  
  
Clearing her mind as best she could, Nephivah began to walk. She wandered aimlessly around Ebonheart, turning corners and cutting through alleys almost at random, not knowing where she might end up. The morning had brought the fort town to life. The streets, so empty the previous night, were now full of people. Imperial soldiers were the most common sight, but there were many civilians too, carrying bundles of laundry to the washhouse or haggling over fruit at the market. The simplicity, the normality of it all seemed so odds with Nephivah’s inner turmoil. A small part of her wanted to grab one of the townsfolk and tell them what she had done, if only to gain a perspective other than her own.  
  
Her own feelings were troubling. She felt panic that the body would be found, fear that someone may have witnessed her crime - but not guilt. As much as she tried to muster a shred of remorse for the man that had died at her hand, she could not do it. Tahn’s look of gratitude as she stepped through the door of the Argonian Mission had been vindication for it all.  
  
Eventually Nephivah came to a wide bridge. It stretched out across the lake towards a large, imposing structure. The soldiers were more present here but she continued walking anyway, as none seemed bothered by her presence. Once she reached the building she walked inside unchallenged. It appeared to be an Imperial headquarters of some sort, though a number of her own people milled around its halls also. Dimly she remembered that Ebonheart was the seat of the Duke. She wondered if this was his residence, and quickly found that she did not particularly care.  
  
As well as armoured legionnaires and well-dressed Dunmeri nobles Nephivah also noticed more than a few common folk moving through the building. All of them seemed to be heading in one direction. Her interest piqued, Nephivah decided to follow them.  
  
They led her to a room at the back of the stronghold. As she pushed the door open she was hit with the smell of burning incense, and the particular quiet that comes when many people try to remain silent at once.  
  
She looked around. The room was austerely decorated, with very little in the way of embellishment aside from a few simple hangings on the walls. The floor was lined with rows of wooden benches, and several Imperials wearing robes and sombre expressions stood by an altar near the far end of the room. Cult, then. It made sense.  
  
Glad of the quiet, Nephivah found an empty bench and sat down. No one would bother her here. She closed her eyes and bent over her knees as if praying, surreptitiously resting her weary head in her hands.  
  
She had done the right thing, hadn’t she? As a lawmaker it was her job to protect the citizens of her province from harm. To save a person from murder could not be a completely dishonorable act.  
  
Except, she thought sourly, in the eyes of the law Tahn did not qualify as a person. She was property, plain and simple. A week ago that had not been a difficult concept for Nephivah to process, but now it angered her. No small amount of ire was directed at herself for her own hypocrisy.  
  
Sighing, Nephivah sank her head down further. The chapel was peaceful, at least. Even her headache was starting to lift a little. She felt a tiredness creep over her, and suddenly she wanted nothing more than to fall asleep right then and there.  
  
She heard footsteps approaching, but thought nothing of them. Someone took a seat to one side of her and, shortly after, another person settled on the other. Assuming they were merely townsfolk come to worship, Nephivah ignored them.  
  
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” the person to her left said. “But I wouldn’t have guessed you to be the religious type.”  
  
Nephivah sat bolt upright, her hand coming instinctively to the hilt of her blade.  
  
“Woah! Easy there. I wouldn’t spill blood in the house of the Divines if I were you. Pretty sure people get cursed for that kind of thing.” The speaker was a Redguard. Nephivah guessed he was around her age, maybe a little older. His braided hair was pulled back into a rough tail, and he wore a robe of the kind she had seen the Mage’s Guild folk sporting back in Balmora. What he was doing talking to her, she had no idea.  
  
“Who are you?” Nephivah demanded. “What do you want?”  
  
“Xuth. Doesn’t mince words, this one.”  
  
Nephivah whipped her head around to face the man sitting on her right. This one was an Argonian, his scales a muddy brown that turned red around the crest above his brow. He was more plainly dressed than the Redguard, but better armed. A bow was slung across his shoulders, and at a glance Nephivah could tell that he had at least two knives concealed on his person.  
  
Panic rose in her gut. Bounty hunters? Had the slaver’s death been discovered so quickly?  
  
“What do you _want_?” she repeated, biting down on the last word.  
  
“Relax,” the Redguard said. He seemed to find her threats more amusing than intimidating. “We just want to talk to you.”  
  
“About what?”  
  
“About Tahn,” the Argonian’s voice was little more than a whisper. “And what you did for her.”  
  
“It was defence,” Nephivah swallowed. “He would have killed her.”  
  
“We know.” The Reguard’s tone was more serious now. “We’re grateful for what your actions. That’s why we’re here.”  
  
She moved her hand away from her blade, just a little. “So you’re not here to kill me?”  
  
“Kill you?” The Redguard erupted into a hearty laugh that drew disapproving stares from several of the chapel priests. “Daedra and Divines, woman. You’ve been reading far too many novels.”  
  
“My name is Silm-Shei,” the Argonian cut in. “My loud-mouthed friend here is Raman. Our employer was impressed by your actions, as were we. He sent us to find you.”  
  
“If your employer is Im-Kilaya, we’ve spoken already,” Nephivah snapped. “I don’t want to be involved with… whatever this is. This wasn’t planned. I ran into Tahn by chance.”  
  
“You didn’t run your sword through that slaver by chance,” Silm-Shei said quietly. “You alone made that choice.”  
  
Nephivah looked down at the floor. “I’m not a killer.”  
  
“Neither are we, if we can help it,” Raman said. “Just give us a chance to explain.”  
  
Silm-Shei seemed to take Nephivah’s silence as an assent. “You changed a person’s life yesterday. Tahn’s world was nothing but pain and fear until you freed her. If you join us, you can do that again. You can change more lives.”  
  
“I have my own life,” Nephivah said. _Guard duty and drinks at the Cornerclub_.  
  
“Don’t misunderstand us. We’re not forcing you to do this,” Raman folded his hands in his lap. “We just want to give you the opportunity.”  
  
“The opportunity to do what, exactly?”  
  
“You’re welcome to see for yourself.” Silm-Shei’s eyes were golden brown, and serious as they met Nephivah’s. “We have a job to do later. Just outside of the city there’s a tree, split in two by lightning. If you want in, meet us there at midnight. If you don’t, you can go back to wherever home is, and you won’t hear from us again.”  
  
“That’s a promise,” Raman nodded. “Please. Think about it, at least.”  
  
“I’d like to be by myself now, if it’s all the same to you.” Nephivah’s words were hard-edged.  
  
The men did not try and argue with her. They left the chapel as quickly as they had arrived, leaving her on her own in the gradually emptying room.  
  
Nephivah knew two things; that attending the meeting would most likely be a terrible idea, and that she was going to do it anyway.


	7. They Light The Way To Freedom

Nephivah remembered the broken tree. She and Tahn had passed it on their way into Ebonheart. It was huge, its halves almost completely separated where the lightning had struck it. Most of the bark was burnt and warped, but the leaves on its smaller branches were still green. It was not difficult to find her way back there, even in the dark.  
  
At first she thought she was the first one to arrive, but as she drew closer she saw Raman and Silm-Shei sitting at the base of the tree’s broad trunk. They seemed almost a part of the night around them. Masser hung full in the sky, but its light did not illuminate the men as it should have done. It was unsettling.  
  
“You made it.” Raman got to his feet when he spotted her. “Good. I thought you might be having second thoughts.”  
  
“What else was I going to do of a Loredas evening?” Nephivah smiled weakly.  
  
Silm-Shei pulled himself up to his full height. He moved gracefully, silently. Shadows hung around him like a shroud. “Are you ready?”  
  
“As I’ll ever be,” she nodded.  
  
It was the truth; she had spent the afternoon making as many preparations as she could, given her rapidly dwindling funds and the lack of information regarding exactly what it was she was supposed to be doing. She had found an armourer near the Legion barracks who would put an edge on her sword for a couple of drakes. While wandering around the shop waiting for him to finish a cuirass of boiled netch leather had caught her eye. It was a little shabby around the edges, and after a minute’s haggling he had sold it to her for a song. The material was lighter and more flexible that her usual bonemold exoskeleten, and she found it far more comfortable to move in.  
  
Being well armed and armoured made Nephivah feel significantly more confident about the task in hand. Given the circumstances she could only assume that the Argonian Mission was enlisting her to fight. Silm-Shei had also brought weapons with him, but Raman was unarmed apart from a small belt knife with a pearl handle. It looked more suited for peeling apples than fighting, and Nephivah told him so.  
  
“Not all of us need steel to do our fighting, Red.” Raman laughed. He lifted his hand, palm upwards to the sky, and tongues of flame licked across his fingers for a moment before vanishing.  
  
“Right,” she nodded. “Magic.”  
  
“You’re not one of those superstitious provincial types, are you?” the Redguard asked. “You know. ‘If you dabble with the arcane Clavicus Vile will come in the night and steal your children’. That kind of thing.”  
  
“Vile isn’t really the child-stealing type,” Silm-Shei said mildly. “Sheogorath, perhaps.”  
  
“I’m not _afraid_ of magic,” Nephivah clarified. “I just don’t see the _point_. Hit a man hard enough and it doesn’t matter how many spells he knows. They all go down the same.”  
  
“Sounds like a challenge to me,” Raman’s grin was almost childlike.  
  
“Enough,” Silm-Shei hissed, interrupting them. “We don’t have time for this. Come. Let me talk you through the plan.”

* * *

Half an hour later the three of them were crouched in the bushes beside a road that was barely deserving of the name. Weeds grew up between the stones, and it was too narrow for two wagons to pass by comfortably. At that time of night it was empty, the tree branches sussurating above them the only sound.  
  
“They’ll be coming from there,” Silm-Shei whispered, gesturing with a clawed finger. “The boats dock to the south. The slavers bring them in stages, three or four at a time. Raman will cause a distraction when they approach. Nephivah, you draw off the guards. Shouldn’t be more than two. I’ll clean up.”  
  
Raman nodded. “Come on. Let’s move out.”  
  
They split up. Reman took a position further along the thoroughfare, and Silm-Shei crossed to the other side of the road and melted into the darkness of the undergrowth. Nephivah stayed where she was, blood pounding in her ears. She kept her blade sheathed.  
  
It was not long before the slave wagon arrived. It was pulled by a single guar, and moved at an almost leisurely pace. She could just make out the driver, and another man next to him who was most likely a caravan guard. From her vantage point she could not see the back of the covered wagon, but she guessed another guard rode there with the slaves.  
  
She was coiled, ready for the fight to come, but not concerned. With the element of surprise on her side she was confident she could take two opponents. The wagon was maybe thirty feet away from her when she began to wonder when Raman’s distraction would take place, and if she would even notice it at all.  
  
The thought had barely crossed her mind when the road in front of the wagon exploded into a pyre of flame. It roared into life for a second, and was gone just as quickly. But it was enough. The guar had bucked in shock, and the driver had been thrown from his seat to the ground. The guard riding beside him had been quicker, landing on his feet, but he was too preoccupied with investigating the source of the explosion to notice Nephivah darting out of the scrub behind him.  
  
He was out cold before she knew he was there. Her blade remained in its scabbard. The fist-sized rock she had found back in the bushes had been far more effective than a swordfight in the dark. She dropped the stone onto the road turned the man over with her boot. To her relief, he was still breathing. She had hoped to avoid killing again, if at all possible.  
  
She remembered the second guard almost a second too late. He ran from behind the wagon so quickly that Nephivah barely managed to draw her blade in time to parry his first blow.  
  
The other guard had been a lightly armoured Dunmer, and, stupidly, she had expected this one to be the same. She was surprised to find herself fighting a brute of an Orc, clad in iron and wielding a blade almost as long as she was tall. She was woefully outmatched. The effort she had to expend merely deflecting his swings was enough to exhaust her. He pressed his advantage, grunting with exertion as he drove her backwards towards the side of the road.  
  
Nephivah felt her footing slip, and for a moment she thought all was lost. Then something whistled out of the shadows, and the Orc froze mid-swing. Slowly, he toppled, like a great oak being felled. Nephivah had to scramble backwards to avoid being crushed.  
  
An arrow was protruding from the guard’s shoulder. It had entered the narrow gap between his gorget and his pauldrons and punctured the mail beneath. As Nephivah crouched to inspect the fallen Orc, Silm-Shei emerged from the darkness.  
  
“Sorry that took so long,” he said. “Bastard was flailing around so much I couldn’t get a clear shot.”  
  
“What did you do to him?” Now she was closer Nephivah could see that the guard’s eyes were still open, darting rapidly between his two adversaries.  
  
“Poison. He’ll be paralysed for a while, but not long enough to dally. Come.”  
  
They walked back to the wagon where Raman was waiting for them, scratching the leathery snout of the guar. It seemed to be enjoying his attentions, pushing up against his hand like a kitten. The driver lay slumped on the floor by the beast’s feet. Every now and then its tail bumped against his head.  
  
“Look at this fellow!” Raman laughed. “Can we take him home?”  
  
“Only if you’re the one that has to walk him.” It was hard to make out through his thickly-accented Tamrielic, but Nephivah was sure that Silm-Shei was being sarcastic.  
  
“Is he alright?” Nephivah nodded at the driver’s prone form.  
  
“Sleeping like a baby,” Raman said.  
  
“See?” Silm-Shei gestured around them. “No casualties.”  
  
“I’ll give you that,” Nephivah said. “So. What happens now?”  
  
As a group, they looked towards the covered back of the wagon.  
  
“Now,” Raman said. “The real work starts.”

* * *

There were three slaves in the back of the wagon, two Argonians and a Khajiit. They were all terrified, but Silm-Shei spoke to the Argonians in Jel for a while and managed to calm them down somewhat. He gave them all a little water, and Raman healed the injuries of those who had them. Then came the long walk back to Ebonheart.  
  
They did not head for the main bridge into the city, but rather looped around the side towards the lake. Silm-Shei led the group to the waterfront, and onto a small boat that was hidden among the reeds. He and Raman rowed for some time in silence. This journey seemed to be familiar to them.  
  
Eventually they reached a small island, where Silm-Shei gestured for them to disembark. It was unremarkable apart from a round stone structure with a metal grate set into it, the kind one might find over a sewer.  
  
As it turned out, that was exactly what it was. Once the grate had been pulled back the group climbed down, one by one, into the darkness. The smell was horrendous, but mercifully there were raised walkways alongside the stream of fetid liquid where one could walk safely. Raman led the way through the twisting passages, a ball of magical light held aloft in his outstretched hand.  
  
Nephivah kept to the rear of their little procession. After her battle with the Orc, a stroll through the sewers seemed almost pleasant. Occasionally one of the slaves would turn to look at her for a moment, their eyes questioning. She supposed that this was something that she was going to have to get used to. Her kind were not well-loved by the peoples of Black Marsh and Elsweyr. Looking the emaciated frames and manacled wrists of the slaves, Nephivah supposed she could understand why.  
  
It was some time before Raman announced that they had reached their destination. He had stopped in the middle of a walkway, seemingly no different to any of the others they had traversed on their journey. While the others watched him, the mage took a deep breath and placed his hands against the bare wall. At his touch, glowing runes began to etch themselves into the sandstone, spreading out until they formed something that looked not entirely unlike a door. When their light faded the solid wall was gone, a narrow passage in its place.  
  
“Impressive,” Nephivah admitted.  
  
Reman waited until the group had passed into the secret hallway before putting the glamour back into place. “Not really. This is novice-level stuff. Though I can see why a barbarian such as yourself might think so.” His words were teasing.  
  
“Don’t push your luck,” she smirked. “Come on, spellslinger, lead the way. There had better be a good hot meal at the end of this.”  
  
As it turned out, there was. The passage came out into the basement of the Argonian Mission, where Im-Kilaya was waiting for them. Attendants led the former slaves upstairs, and the diplomat invited their liberators to join him in his quarters. There was already food laid out on the table when they sat down, bowls of perfumed broth and platters of grilled shellfish. Nephivah resisted falling on it immediately, and instead nibbled politely on some kind of crustacean while the old Argonian spoke.  
  
“You did well tonight, my friends,” Im-Kilaya laced his fingers across his chest. “You should be proud.”  
  
“The slavers live,” Silm-Shei said matter-of-factly. “Security will be doubled on that route now. We won’t be lucky twice.”  
  
“That’s alright. There are plenty more opportunities away from the city. And how did our newest member fare?” Im-Kilaya turned his eyes to Nephivah.  
  
“Could have done better,” she shrugged noncommittally.  
  
Raman stopped eating for a moment to speak. “For a first mission? Hardly. Im, she’s good. We need people like Red.” He gestured at Nephivah emphatically with his soup spoon.  
  
“He’s right,” Silm-Shei agreed. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to request that she join the faction.”  
  
“You don’t need to ask me.” Im-Kilaya nodded to Nephivah. Raman and Silm-Shei looked at her expectantly.  
  
Nephivah was struck silent for a moment. The last two days had been a blur. There had been no time to get her bearings, to think about what such a choice would mean. Her home, her family, her work, everything she knew was back in Balmora. Joining the abolitionists would not be a decision she could reverse.  
  
“Nephivah?”  
  
The quiet voice came from the doorway behind her. Nephivah turned, and it took her a moment to realise who she was looking at. The Argonian stood before her was clean and uninjured, her scales glossy with health. She wore a simple robe of green silk, belted at the waist, and there were no bracers locked around her wrists.  
  
“Tahn,” Nephivah said. “I didn’t recognise you.”  
  
“I barely recognise myself,” Tahn chuckled. “It’s good to see you, friend.” The Argonian pulled up a seat next to Nephivah and clasped her hand warmly.  
  
“You too.” Nephivah could not stop herself from smiling. In less than a day Tahn had gone from a broken, beaten shell to this. And she had been a part of what made that happen.  
  
“Im-Kilaya told me that you might be joining the Twin Lamps,” Tahn said, squeezing Nephivah’s hand tighter. “Is it true?”  
  
Nephivah glanced around the room, meeting each pair of eyes in turn.  
  
“Yes.” She had not known her answer until it came out of her mouth. “I suppose I am.”


	8. Fraternity

The day after she joined the Twin Lamps Nephivah sat down to write several letters. She wrote to Ano, apologising for her absence and explaining that Ovethi had not granted her leave to visit him. She wrote to her parents and told them that a minor Hlaalu family, friends of Ano’s employers, had offered her a position as part of their household guard. Lastly she wrote to Ovethi to tender her resignation. As much as it pained her she kept that missive particularly formal, not stating her reason for leaving or offering any explanation. She was fond of Ovethi, and he had done a lot for her in the last three years, but she had no choice. He would see straight through any story that she could fabricate.  
  
Organising lodgings in Ebonheart proved to be a simple matter. Raman and Silm-Shei occupied a small suite of rooms above a bakery, paid for by Im-Kilaya. The place was modest at best, but it was free of vermin and full of the pleasant scent of baking bread. As the newest member of their coterie Nephivah was invited to stay in the spare bedroom, which was about as large and well-furnished as a prison cell. A bedroll occupied most of the floor, and several candle stubs burned on the sill of a tiny window.  
  
“J’dal took most of his things when he left,” Silm-Shei explained when he showed her the sparse chamber. “You can pick up most everything you need at the market.”  
  
“What happened to J’dal?” Nephivah asked, slightly concerned that she might be sleeping in a dead man’s bed.  
  
“He got word from his family back in Elsweyr. Went home,” Silm-Shei said. “Can’t blame him for that.”  
  
“I suppose not.”  
  
“It’s no palace, I know,” Raman leaned against the doorframe. “But it’s home. Come on, let’s have a drink. We’re not really a team until we’ve shared a bottle or five.”  
  
The mage led them into another room, a slightly larger chamber that functioned as parlour, kitchen and pantry. A stone hearth kept the room warm even in the depths of winter, and a small leaded window looked out across Ebonheart.  
  
The table was only just big enough for the three of them to sit around. Once Nephivah and Silm-Shei had pulled up chairs Raman produced a bottle of cheap wine and poured them each a generous glass. His manner was almost ritualistic, but Nephivah saw a smile tugging at the edges of his sombre expression.  
  
“Gathered friends,” Raman began, his voice booming. “Partake of this most hallowed vintage, and pledge yourself to the fraternity of-” He stopped short when a cork hit him in the side of the head.  
  
“Enough with the theatrics,” Silm-Shei, who had thrown it, said. “Sit down and drink.”  
  
Nephivah lifted her glass. “Cheers.”  
  
“Excuse me for trying to bring a little flair to the proceedings,” the mage grumbled, taking a seat.  
  
The three of them talked for a while as they drank. Raman and Silm-Shei explained how their operation worked, how they received word of jobs and were paid for them. Their attack on the wagon was a fairly typical mission. Twin Lamps agents would find out where slave caravans were travelling, and it was up to their cell to lay ambushes and liberate prisoners. Once the slaves were brought to a safehouse, Im-Kilaya would compensate them for their efforts. It was mercenary work, albeit with a conscience.  
  
They were halfway through their second bottle when the conversation shifted from professional to personal matters. Nephivah sensed that they wanted to know more about where she came from and, reluctant to talk about it, she attempted to change the subject.  
  
“Do you miss Hammerfell?” she asked Raman.  
  
“Difficult to miss somewhere you’ve never been,” he smirked. “I’m not from Hammerfell, Red. Wasn’t born there anyway.”  
  
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to assume.” Nephivah’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment.  
  
He waved a hand at her. “No offence taken.”  
  
“So where are you from, then?”  
  
“The centre of the civilised world,” Raman grinned. “Crown jewel of our fair Tamriel.”  
  
“Here we go,” Silm-Shei rolled his eyes.  
  
“The Imperial City has it all,” the mage continued unabashed. “Art, culture, academia. Raised in a place like that, it’s no surprise I turned out the way I did.”  
  
“A pretentious ass? No, it isn’t.”  
  
Raman narrowed his eyes at the argonian. “A _scholar_ and a _gentleman_.”  
  
“How did a _scholar_ and a _gentleman_ end up incinerating slave caravans in Vvardenfell then?” Nephivah said, sensing that Raman was dying to be asked.  
  
“Now _that_ is a story,” he said. “I hope you’re sitting comfortably.”  
  
“You brought this upon yourself,” Silm-Shei pointed at Nephivah.  
  
“So,” Raman began. “I was in the Mage’s Guild back home. Made it to Warlock rank- youngest in fifty years- before I got bored. Politics, you know how it is. Decided I wanted to see the world. The East Empire Company were looking for mages, so I joined up.”  
  
“What do merchant sailors need mages for?”  
  
“What _don’t_ they need mages for? Healing injuries, keeping cargo dry, purifying seawater for drinking. The applications are endless. So I travelled with them for a year or so. Finally ended up in Morrowind. Now at this point I’d travelled up the ranks a bit, was acting as a retainer to our vessel’s captain, Marcus. So when he went to meet a prospective client in Ebonheart, I went with him.  
  
“We’d only been docked for a couple of days. I wasn’t familiar with Dunmeri culture, at least not in practice. So when I saw that our new business partner had an enslaved argonian trailing around behind him, well. It came as a shock. I confronted Marcus about it after the meeting and he told me it was something I had to get used to.  
  
“I couldn’t get used to it. As a proud citizen of the Empire I was _incensed_ by the barbarism of it all,” Raman mocked himself. “So, that night, I decided to take it upon myself to break into the merchant’s rooms and release his slave.”  
  
“Did you manage it?” Nephivah asked, hooked on the tale in spite of herself.  
  
“Did I hell,” the mage laughed. “My _daring rescue_ happened to be taking place on the same night the slave was orchestrating his own escape. He was furious.”  
  
“Damn near got us both locked up,” Silm-Shei grumbled.  
  
It took Nephivah a moment to process the significance of his statement. “You were the slave?”  
  
The argonian nodded. “I was.”  
  
“Shei dragged me to the Mission by my ear once we got out of there. We’ve been working together ever since,” Raman smiled fondly at his friend, who twitched his spines in irritation.  
  
“And J’dal?”  
  
“Another former slave,” Silm-Shei said.  
  
“He was the muscle component of our little coterie,” Raman elaborated. “Your timing was perfect. He left for Orcrest about a week before you showed up.”  
  
Nephivah began uncorking a third bottle of wine. “Lucky me. Now I get to play bodyguard for you two reprobates.”  
  
Raman laughed. “You’ll fit in just fine, Red. A toast to you.”

* * *

She did fit in. Over the following weeks and months Nephivah continually proved her worth to the Twin Lamps. She fought hard and furiously, leading their attacks and planning their ambushes. Every battle improved her eye for strategy, and each skirmish was quicker and cleaner than the last.  
  
The cell’s missions took them all over Vvardenfell. They camped in foothills and foyadas, hid out in Dwemer ruins and spied on plantations. There were safehouses in most of the major cities where they could bring any slaves they liberated, and find themselves food and shelter for a night or two. Mostly, however, they stayed in Ebonheart, waiting for a tip from Im-Kilaya.  
  
These days between jobs were not wasted. Nephivah showed her friends how to fight at close quarters, and in return they shared skills of their own. Silm-Shei taught her how fletch arrows, and how to speak the name of Nocturnal so she might close her shadows around you.  
  
Nephivah resisted Raman’s attempts to educate her in the arcane arts, but gave in when a fight near Hla Oad left her with a shallow gash along her thigh.  
  
“Restoration is one of the easiest schools of magic to enter into,” he explained. “It’s not like throwing lightning or conjuring a daedra from thin air. Your body is already healing on its own. All you’re doing is speeding up the process.”  
  
“The process would be _sped up_ if you did it yourself,” Nephivah spoke through gritted teeth.  
  
“And what if I’m not there? What then?”  
  
“Fine.”  
  
“Very good. Now. Concentrate on the wound. Try to focus on the flesh around it. Imagine it healing, knitting back together. Your body _wants_ it to happen.”  
  
“It’s not working.”  
  
“You’re not trying. Close your eyes.”  
  
Begrudgingly, Nephivah did as she was told. At first all she could feel was the searing pain where the slaver’s spear had torn through her greaves. But then another sensation revealed itself, a counterpoint to the first. It was warm, and clear, and behind her eyelids it looked like a soft yellow light. Steadying her breathing, Nephivah tried to push the new feeling to the forefront of her mind, past the pain. She pictured her flesh as it would be whole, the wound a thin line of scar tissue. When she finally opened her eyes it had stopped hurting. Looking down at her leg, she was shocked to find the cut was almost completely healed.  
  
“Not bad for a first attempt,” Raman said approvingly. “Keep that up and I’ll make an apprentice of you.”  
  
“B’vek,” she muttered, running her fingers across the raised flesh that had been bleeding a moment ago. “That’s magic I can get on board with.”

* * *

Months turned to seasons, seasons to years.  
  
Nephivah’s cell became known as the scourge of the slave trade across Vvardenfell. When the Nerevarine threw the Great Houses into crisis, she and her companions were there to reap the benefits. Popular opinion was slowly turning against the old traditions, and it was becoming easier for the Twin Lamps to find willing conspirators. The Imperial Legion in particular was full of those sympathetic to their cause. Nephivah even took one of their Legionnaire informants as a lover, although practicality meant he could never be more than that.  
  
She grew stronger, more focused. Although Silm-Shei was still the leader of their group, Nephivah took over the responsibility of planning their assaults. Years of reading books about great warriors and famous battles had inadvertently instilled in her a knowledge of tactics that frequently came in useful.  
  
Occasionally Nephivah would write to her family, but she never returned to Balmora. If they discovered the truth it would put all of them in danger. Instead she would send a roll of coins, a book for her mother, a straw doll for Sovali. It was a poor substitute for her presence, but it had to suffice.  
  
She missed her parents and sister terribly, but Raman and Silm-Shei became a second family to her. For six years they lived and worked together, laughing and squabbling like mismatched siblings. Im-Kilaya always had a place for them at his table, and Tahn, who had remained at the Mission, often visited them in their rooms over the bakery.  
  
Nephivah was happy. She had work, and companionship, and a cause she believed in. Given the choice, she would have remained in Ebonheart until the end of her days. She may have done so too, were it not for the message the cell received one morning in Second Seed. Im-Kilaya had an important task for them.  
  
The next day they would leave for the north, and Nephivah’s life would change forever.


	9. The Slaves of Zafirbel Bay

The assignment Im-Kilaya had given them was more complex and more dangerous than any they had previously undertaken. Twin Lamps spies in Tel Ahrun had discovered the location of a holding compound full of slaves, and the Ebonheart cell were tasked with freeing them.  
  
The owner of the slaves was keeping them locked up on one of the small islands in Zafirbel Bay, shuttling them off to market one by one. Intelligence suggested that there were at least a dozen prisoners there, easily twice as many as the cell were used to transporting safely. To call the job a challenge would be a wild understatement.  
  
Nephivah and her companions took the Chun-Ook to Sadrith Mora, and from there travelled on foot to Wolverine Hall. The Twin Lamps had a contact there, an Imperial Cult priest with the usual western sympathies. He was their only real ally so deep into Telvanni territory.  
  
The trio met him at the Cult shrine when they arrived, and he led them into a small chapel away from prying eyes.  
  
“Your handler wrote ahead to inform me of your plans,” he whispered. “I have done what I can, but a liberation of this scale won’t be easy.”  
  
“We know that already,” Silm-Shei said. “How can you help?”  
  
“Firstly, I’ve taken the liberty of chartering the Elf-Skerring for your return to Ebonheart.”  
  
“Can the shipmaster be trusted?” Nephivah frowned. Civilian witnesses were dangerous.  
  
“Gals won’t be a problem,” the priest said. “He’s on the Legion payroll. He’ll lose his ship and his livelihood if he talks.”  
  
“And what about getting them back here in the first place?” Raman asked. “A boat big enough to carry them all will be too conspicuous. I could put a glamour on it but it wouldn’t be perfect by any means.”  
  
The priest walked over to the wall of the chapel and pulled back one of the tapestries that hung there. Behind it was a small alcove, set deep into the masonry. He reached inside it and pulled out a scroll, tightly wrapped in oilskin.  
  
“You are the mage, yes?” he asked Raman. Raman nodded, and the priest handed the scroll to him. “This is a powerful spell of Divine Intervention. If you cast it correctly it should transport all of you back here in an instant. But I warn you, it will only work once. There is no room for error. Anyone not standing close to you will be left behind.”  
  
“No pressure then,” Raman said, tucking the scroll securely inside his travelsack.  
  
“Divines watch over you,” the priest bowed his head. “And watch over yourselves. The slaver who owns these poor souls is not known for his mercy.”

* * *

Nephivah squinted through the fog, trying to make out the shape of a structure on one of the innumerable islands of the bay. They had been rowing through the watery maze for hours trying to find the slave compound. Their map showed them roughly where it was supposed to be, but the landscape was so featureless that they had become hopelessly lost.  
  
Evening was drawing in. Nephivah was just about to suggest that they turn around and try again the next day when she spotted lights in the distance.  
  
“There!” she hissed, pointing towards the dim glow. “Shei, bring us closer.”  
  
He did as he was asked, moving the oars silently through the dark water. As they drew nearer the lights revealed themselves as torches, held by two men. They stood on a nearby island next to a rickety shack, talking to one another in low voices. Their own boat was tied up on the shore beside them.  
  
As Nephivah watched one of the men went into the structure and came out dragging a Khajiiti woman by the scruff of her neck. He pushed her into the boat and climbed in behind her, laughing. The second man barred the door of the shack before joining them. Together the slavers untied the boat from its mooring and began to row away towards Tel Ahrun.  
  
“That’s definitely the place,” Raman said. “What’s the plan, Red?”  
  
Nephivah surveyed their surroundings. The slaver’s island was the largest in the immediate area, but many smaller ones were dotted around the water nearby. Inside the shack itself a single light burned. Their tip had not told them whether or not the place was guarded.  
  
“Shei,” she said. “That island over there, with the three boulders. Can you swim to it?”  
  
“Of course,” he replied.  
  
“Good. Raman and I will take the boat. I’ll go in first. You cover me in case there’s trouble. Once I’m sure it’s safe I’ll signal for you both to come inside. Clear?”  
  
“Clear,” the other two echoed.  
  
“Right,” she said. “Let’s go.”  
  
Silm-Shei climbed over the side and into the water, slipping through it as easily as breathing. Nephivah took over the oars and began steering them towards the slaver’s island. She left the boat in the shallows, not bothering to tie it up. If their plan worked they would not be needing it again.  
  
She and Raman waded through the freezing water and onto the pebble beach. The shack was some twenty feet away from them.  
  
“Stay here,” she whispered to Raman. “I’ll call when it’s time.”  
  
“But what if you need help?”  
  
Nephivah shook her head. “I can handle a guard or two. The scroll is more important.”  
  
“If you’re sure,” Raman did not sound happy. “Good luck.”  
  
“Thanks.” Nephivah glanced over to one of the nearby islands. She could make out the dim shape of Silm-Shei crouching behind a rocky outcrop.  
  
Satisfied that her companions were ready, Nephivah dropped into a crouch and crept towards the door of the shack. It had been barred but not locked, and it swung open easily once she removed the heavy plank. Inside was dim, one thin taper the only source of light. The room reeked of sweat and excrement, and the floor was matted with damp straw.  
  
Against the back wall a dozen slaves stood huddled together. They were all khajiit or argonians, all filthy, all thin. When they saw Nephivah approaching a few of them whimpered with fear.  
  
“It’s alright,” she said, holding her hands out in front of her. “I’m here to help you.”  
  
“You will do no such thing.”  
  
The sharp voice came from behind her. It was gloating, full of triumph. Nephivah’s stomach sank. _A trap_. She stood frozen in place, too shocked to turn around.  
  
“I knew you abolitionist dogs would come sniffing around my merchandise eventually,” he said. “I have to say, I was expecting a lizard, not one of my own kind. Turn and face me, traitor. See the face of a real Dunmer before you die.”  
  
Slowly, Nephivah turned around. The slave owner was tall, his face all sharp angles and shadow. A wicked looking knife hung at his belt, and Nephivah could see the glint of mail underneath his coat. She knew, suddenly and with certainty, that she would not be able to kill this man.  
  
Then she looked up into his eyes, and recognised him.  
  
“Nix,” she breathed.  
  
“Well, well,” he laughed. “Nephivah Sadrys. Imperial bootlicker turned beast-lover. Why am I not surprised? Your bleeding heart always was your biggest downfall.”  
  
“Llandris Marvani,” Nephivah drew her sword. “I have ten men with their arrows trained on this island. Stand down or you’ll be dead before you can blink.”  
  
“You always were a terrible liar,” Llandris said. He lifted his hand, and something red burst from his fingertips.  
  
Nephivah’s sword suddenly glowed white with heat. She dropped it, yelping in shock and clutching at her hand. The smell of burning leather filled the room. Llandris stepped forward and kicked the weapon out of her reach.  
  
“Good little trick that,” he mused. “Endase taught it to me. Now _there_ is a clever woman. If you had been more like her you wouldn’t be in this mess.”  
  
“Fuck you.” Nephivah spat at his feet.  
  
Anger flared in Llandris’ eyes. “It’s time to surrender, Sadrys,” he barked. “I’ll give you that option for old time’s sake. I suggest you take it.”  
  
Nephivah was cornered. Slowly, she looked from Llandris to the group of slaves trembling in the shadows, then back again. It dawned on her that she might still be able to save them, even if she couldn’t save herself.  
  
Turning to the door, she ran.  
  
She was halfway to the shore when something solid hit her in the small of the back and she went down, hard. She rolled back up onto her knees, coughing air into her lungs. Her vision was hazy but she could see Llandris approaching her through the darkness. Every step took him further away from the slaves.  
  
When he drew close enough he delivered a sharp kick to Nephivah’s ribs. Pain blossomed in her chest and set her head spinning. She curled up, gasping for air.  
  
“You can’t escape, scrib,” he said. “Give up. Or I’ll be forced to kill you.”  
  
Nephivah strained her neck to look behind him, towards the shack. Raman was standing near the doorway, staring at her in horror. He clutched the scroll in his hand.  
  
“Raman!” she screamed. “Now! Get them out!”  
  
She saw the pain in her friend’s face before he turned away from her, but to his credit he did not hesitate. Her team knew how to follow orders.  
  
Llandris whipped around to see who Nephivah was calling to. Realising his merchandise was at risk, he sprinted back towards the shack at full pelt.  
  
He had barely made it halfway to the door when a blinding light flared from inside the building. When it faded Llandris looked inside, then let out a howl of pure fury. The slaves were gone.  
  
“ _You!_ ” he snarled, striding back over to where Nephivah lay crouched in the dirt. He pulled the knife from his belt, considered it for a moment, then sheathed it again. “No. You don’t deserve a quick death.”  
  
White hot shards of pain exploded behind Nephivah’s eyes as his boot connected with her skull. She scrabbled around in the mud, trying to get upright, trying to get away though she knew it was hopeless. Llandris got to his knees and pinned her to the ground by her wrists, preventing her escape.  
  
“Your slaves are gone,” she said, tasting blood. “You’re finished, Nix.”  
  
Llandris held up his fist to strike her, letting go of one of her arms in the process. Seizing the opportunity she grabbed for the knife at his belt. He moved away in time, but his momentary lapse in concentration allowed Nephivah to twist out of his grip. She drove her elbow into his face and heard cartilage snap. He screamed in pain.  
  
They fought like animals, biting and scratching and tearing at each other with their bare hands. Nephivah could feel the warmth of blood on her face, but she could not tell who it belonged to. Llandris’ eyes were wild with fury as he clawed at her arms, trying to restrain her.  
  
She faltered, just for a second, and before she knew it he was on top of her. Putting his weight on her abdomen, he grabbed hold of her hair and smashed her head into the cold ground. Nephivah saw stars, and felt the blood roaring in her ears. The second time he did it she felt the world lurch around her, and knew she would not survive for long.  
  
But the final blow never came. Llandris’ drew back his fist and suddenly stiffened, his face still contorted in anger. He fell off of her, landing in the dirt with a heavy thud. There was something sticking out of his back. Nephivah could see feathers, white as snow. An arrow. _Shei_.  
  
She looked up. Her eyes were unfocused but she could make out a shape made of scales and shadow, a shape she knew.  
  
“Come on,” Silm-Shei said, pulling her to her feet. “We have to go.”  
  
She leaned on him as he led her to the water. Her feet were unsteady, and she stumbled several times.  
  
“The boat drifted off. I’m going to need to swim to it. Can you hold onto my back?”  
  
Nephivah nodded dumbly. Silm-Shei took her hand as they walked out into the shallows. It was bitterly cold, but she barely noticed. She wrapped her arms around her friend’s neck, and he plunged into the freezing water. Salt burned the cuts on her face and arms, and pain tore through her anew. She could feel herself losing consciousness, feel her hands slipping. She opened her mouth to breathe and water rushed into it. Something was screaming in her ears.  
  
Then, there was nothing.

* * *

Nephivah opened her eyes. She could see nothing but a clear expanse of blue, and a bright light. For a moment she wondered if she was in Aetherius.  
  
She tried to get up, and every muscle in her body spasmed in protest. She swore, pain flooding through her. Not dead, then.  
  
“Look who’s up,” a familiar voice said.  
  
Raman took her elbow and helped her move into a sitting position. Blinking against the sunlight, she looked around to get her bearings. She was on a boat, surrounded by nothing but calm water. Gulls wheeled overhead, and the sun beat down warmly on her face.  
  
Raman and Silm-Shei were sitting on either side of her. An old Dunmeri man stood at the bow of the vessel, and the rest of the deck was taken up by the slaves she had found on the island. All their eyes were on her.  
  
“You did it,” she said, stunned.  
  
“ _We_ did it,” Silm-Shei replied. “You’ve been out for a couple of days. Missed half the voyage.”  
  
“What happened?” Nephivah asked. She tried to shift herself into a more comfortable position, but quickly found there wasn’t one.  
  
“We got back to Wolverine Hall just fine,” Raman said. “Shei brought you there a few hours later. We thought you were gone for sure, but our priest friend knows a trick or two. You’ll be okay. Maybe avoid mirrors for a couple of weeks though.”  
  
“That slaver bastard really did a number on you,” Silm-Shei said.  
  
Nephivah felt suddenly cold. “Shei. Poisoned or paralysed?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“The slaver,” she said. “That arrow. Was he poisoned or paralysed?”  
  
“Paralysed,” Silm-Shei frowned. “No casualties.”  
  
Nephivah buried her face in her hands. She felt Raman lay his hand on her shoulder.  
  
“It was a success, Red,” the mage said. “We’re a hundred miles away. He’ll be pissed for sure, but by the time he gets back to market we’ll be long gone.”  
  
“You don’t understand,” she said, sitting up. “I know him.”  
  
“Come again?”  
  
“I _know_ him.” Every word was painful. “We grew up together in Balmora. His name is Ni- Llandris. Llandris Marvani. He knows who I am. He knows where my family live. If he’s still alive he’ll find me, and then he’ll find you. And eventually he’ll find them.” She nodded meaningfully towards the other passengers.  
  
“Shit,” Raman breathed.  
  
“Yeah, shit indeed,” she said, pulling her knees up against her chest.  
  
“What happens now?” Silm-Shei asked.  
  
“I don’t have much choice.” Nephivah felt her eyes sting with tears. “I can’t stay in Vvardenfell. I probably can’t even stay in Morrowind.”  
  
“What? You can’t just _leave_!” Raman looked horrified that she had even suggested such a thing. “If this Marvani’s a problem then we should just go back and-”  
  
“No,” Silm-Shei interrupted. “I hate to say it, but she’s right. Chances are he’s already got a bounty out on her head. It’s not safe for her here.”  
  
Raman slumped back, defeated. “I still have friends in the East Empire Company,” he said quietly. “I can get you passage to Cyrodiil as soon as we get into Ebonheart. If that’s what you want.”  
  
Nephivah nodded. “Please. But my family-”  
  
“We’ll make sure they’re safe. You have my word,” Silm-Shei assured her.  
  
“So that’s it,” she looked out across the water. “It’s over.”  
  
Wordlessly, her friends each took one of her hands in theirs. The surface of the Sea of Ghosts fractured the sunlight into a thousand pieces.  
  
In less than a week they would be back in Ebonheart, and their years together would be at an end.


End file.
